


Bloodlust

by Giroshane



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Blood and Injury, Character Turned Into Vampire, Comfort/Angst, Jewish Pines Family, M/M, Sexual Content, becoming a vampire is brutal in this universe, sorry Fidds
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-05-05 06:15:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 39,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5364557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Giroshane/pseuds/Giroshane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They thought Fiddleford just had a cold, or maybe the flu or something. But sometimes they make mistakes. Big, bloody ones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Fiddleford? Fidds, I’m home! How are you holding up?” Stanford called as he entered the house, groceries in hand. Usually Fiddleford was the one who went into town--Stanford didn’t really enjoy interacting with the humans of Gravity Falls; they were friendly, but also nosy--but this was a rare occasion in which Stanford had had no choice. Rare occasion being Fiddleford was outrageously ill.

He seemed to have caught a stomach virus or flu: he had barely managed to keep anything more than water down for that past three days and the poor man was endlessly plagued by hot flashes and fever chills, headaches, backaches--whole body aches, really--and coughing. Fiddleford insisted he was managing fine without a trip to a medical doctor (“‘S just a virus, nothin’ more to do than let it pass”), but that didn't mean he couldn't do with some medication to help with the pain. Stanford felt a little bad he couldn't do anything more to help his best friend. He was more than equipped to handle emergencies, bruises and gashes and cuts, a lifetime of first aid knowledge stocked in his head borne from a family unable to afford hospital visits, but none of it could help Fiddleford right now.

“Fidds?” He called again when there was no response. He walked into the messy sitting room, where Fiddleford had been situated on the ratty couch wrapped in several blankets, with a bucket by his side just in case. But Fiddleford was nowhere to be seen. Ford frowned, setting the groceries on the table and taking off his hat, gloves and scarf (Oregon winter was setting in, that was for sure).

Maybe Fiddleford had gone to take a shower; they helped him cool off if he was having hot flashes. But Ford disapproved of Fiddleford exerting himself without someone there to keep an eye on him. After all, what if--

Oh _god_.

Stanford cursed at himself for not noticing it when he walked in. How could he consider himself an observant scientist if he hadn't even noticed the blood splattered on the ground by the bucket!? Panic coursed through him.

“Fidds!” He yelled. His stomach twisted as he realized the blood trailed from the bucket all the way up the stairs. Stanford’s first conclusion was that Fiddleford had begun vomiting blood, in which case he had to get the man to a hospital, _now_. But as he pounded up the steps, horror and dread mixed with his panic. Who could vomit up _this much blood_? It decorated the hallway in scattered bursts all the way to the bathroom. The closer to the bathroom he got, the more blood there was. There were several bloody handprints along the wall; Stanford did his best not to gag at the sight.

 _Fiddleford can’t be dead_ , his mind repeated, _you were only gone for an hour, maximum! What the hell happened!?_

The door to the bathroom was only open a crack. Stanford steeled himself, taking a deep breath and holding it. He pushed the door open.

“ _Fuck!_ ” All the air escaped him in one loud, broken curse. Even though he would never describe himself as squeamish, he felt light-headed, dizzy with horror and disgust. It took everything in him to keep his stomach from revolting.

There was blood _everywhere_. It stained the sink, most of the countertop, and the entire floor was covered in a _literal_ pool of blood. This wasn't someone vomiting up blood. This was someone having all of the blood _drained out of their body._

“F-Fiddleford…” Stanford choked. He had just gone out to the supermarket, Fiddleford just had the flu, how--how had it all become _this_? Ford fought back a wail, but he couldn't fight back his tears.

Fiddleford couldn't be _gone_ , not like that. Not so quickly. Stanford backed out of the doorway to the bathroom until his back thumped against the wall. Everything was happening too fast.

“Fidds...no…” Everything felt too heavy and he sank to the ground, shoulders shaking. His hand graced along something small. He raised it to eye-level and he covered his mouth to suppress another wail: Fiddleford’s glasses, shattered and bent. He clutched them in his shaking hand, pressing them against his chest. But before he let his eyes blur out the world with tears, he noticed something on the other side of the doorway. A bloody handprint. Which wouldn't have really caught his attention except for the fact that it smeared _away_ from the bathroom. Glancing at the floor, he saw there was a blood trail to match. Something had gone into the bathroom, and something had come out and gone down the hallway and around the corner.

Hope surged in Stanford’s chest, although he knew it was foolish. If this was indeed Fiddleford’s blood, there was no way his friend could be alive. Rage washed over him at that acknowledgment: _something_ had done this to Fiddleford. And they were still in the _fucking house._

And Ford was going to make them _pay_.

Shakily he climbed to his feet, aware that marching down the hallway headfirst into danger without a weapon was unbelievably dangerous but too angry and grief-stricken to care.

Fiddleford was his best friend. Not even, he was _more_ than that, he was--Stanford couldn't say brother, that comparison had long been tainted for him. But he had always been so much more, he meant so much to Stanford. What was he, then, if more than a friend, more than _family_?

It didn't matter now. Fiddleford was _dead_. Stanford dutifully followed the trail, all the way to...Fiddleford’s room.

 _First it takes him and then it takes his bed_ , Ford thought, gritting his teeth. The fire in him built and he angrily twisted the door handle. It didn't give--the door was locked. He settled for slamming his fist against the door instead.

“You--You _monster_! Come out here and face me!” He shouted. “I'll _kill_ you for what you did to him!”

He started backing up, preparing to ram the door down, when a weak but distinguishable southern plea came from the other side that stopped him dead.

“S-s-st-tanford, don't c-come in here. Go away, p-p-please go away.”

There were so many emotions warring within Stanford that he swayed on his feet. It took him a breath before ecstatic relief won out and he bolted back to the door, jiggling the handle furiously.

“Fidds! Fiddleford! Thank _god_ you’re alive! What's going on? Let me in!”

“I c-can't--I won't! P-please g-go away!” Fiddleford’s voice was hoarse, but louder now.

“Fiddleford you’re hurt! You’re--I don't even know! You have to let me help you!” Stan yelled through the door. There wasn't really any denying the fact that all of this blood was Fiddleford’s, which would usually fill Stanford with curiosity but was now overridden by his relief and concern.

“N-n-no! Don't come in! It isn't s-safe!”

“Fidds--” Stan paused, a panicked thought finding its way to the forefront of his brain.

What if this _wasn't_ Fiddleford? What if it was whoever had done this to him, and had taken his voice, or worse, his _shape_? Ford’s mind briefly flitted to the shapeshifter--but that thing was cryogenically frozen. There was no way it could have escaped, and even if it had, it wouldn't have been able to get past Ford’s traps. But it could be any manner of Gravity Falls monster. Again hope wrangled with rage in his chest.

It was Fiddleford, or it wasn't Fiddleford, but Stanford was getting inside that room.

“Stanf-ford, _please_ stay out. I'm f-fine! Just, d-don't come n-near…” Fiddleford begged as Stanford took a preparatory step back. Again, he steeled himself for whatever he was about to face.

_SLAM!_

It only took one strong kick to force the door open, and Stanford was in the room. He heard the tail-end of a frightened shriek and the thump of something falling off the bed. The first thing that captured his attention were the bloodstains on the bed; his reaction to that something scrambling into the closet was delayed.

“Fidds!” The door was slammed shut before he could reach it, but he yanked viciously on the door handle.

“Stanford n-no!” Fiddleford wailed. He was holding the door closed on the other side, Ford couldn’t get the door to budge (funny, he didn’t remember Fiddleford ever being strong enough to do that). “Ya--ya g-gotta stay away! It’s--it’s f-fer yer own g-g-good!”

“Fiddleford Hadron McGucket, I am helping you whether you like it--” Stanford kicked the door with enough force to make Fiddleford yelp and let go, allowing him to slam it open, “--or _not_!”

“ _No!_ ” Fiddleford shoved himself as far back into the closet as he could go (which wasn't very far--it wasn't a very deep closet) and wrapped his comforter tighter around him. It didn't do much good--Standford could see his face and what he saw made his heart stop.

Fiddleford was _covered_ in blood. It trailed from every orifice in his face: down from his ears, dripping from his eyes like tears, out of his nose, his whole chin was deep red from the amount of blood that had poured out of his mouth, hell his _nail beds_ were lined with blood, fingers clutching the blanket close around him like a shield. It all stood out so strongly against his skin, paler than usual, too pale (but that made sense considering all the blood loss). Ford could see blood matted and soaked in most of Fiddleford’s hair, blood staining his bare feet, but that's not what sent him to his knees.

It was _relief_. This was Fiddleford, _his_ Fiddleford--something _clicked_ in his head as soon as that thought blared through him, but it was shoved away for a later time--alive. Injured, yes, but _alive_.

“Fidds,” He breathed, doing his best not to cry again and probably failing, “Thank God. Got tsu danken aun ale nyvaim.”

Yet something wasn't right. Fiddleford was staring at him, eyes unfocused but wide with terror and...something else. Something wild. It seemed like the two emotions were warring within him.

“F-F-Ford,” the man stuttered, voice low and warning, “G-get out of here. N-now.”

“What?” Ford blinked. “No! You need help--”

“ _Shut up_!” Fiddleford hissed, recoiling further into the blanket. “Yer too l-loud. Ev-everything’s t-too loud. T-too bright. Too _much_ …”

Stanford frowned. Had Fiddleford’s ordeal sent him into some sort of sensory overload? It was possible, but he couldn't draw any conclusions without knowing more about whatever happened.

“Fidds, you have to tell me what happened,” Ford kept his voice quiet, trying to avoid exacerbating Fiddleford’s symptoms, “you have to tell me what did this to you.”

Fiddleford narrowed his eyes, like he was trying to appear intimidating. He spoke slowly, but his words were still shaky.

“St-Stanford Pines, y-you need to run as f-f-far away from me as you c-can. I--I ain't s-safe.”

“Safe?” Ford echoed, reaching out to him. “Fiddleford if you’re worried about me being infected with whatever this is I've already been around your blood long enough to be contaminated so t--”

Faster than Ford could process his hand was knocked away, _hard_. Ford fought back an agonized cry because _damn_ that hurt. If he didn't know any better he’d think his wrist had snapped but why-- _how_ was Fiddleford able to almost accomplish that?

“ _Ford_ ,” Fiddleford gritted, shaking even worse, “I--I--it’s g-getting harder for me to hold b-back. You n-need to go b-before I hurt you.”

“Hurt me?” Stanford must sound like an idiot, dumbly echoing every word the other man was saying, but seriously? What was coming out of Fiddleford’s mouth wasn't making any sense. Fiddleford, his best friend (more than that) of over five years, one of the kindest souls on the planet, gentle to a fault, _hurting_ him?

“Fidds,” he murmured, reaching out again, slower this time, “there’s nothing in this universe that could convince me you would ever--”

Fiddleford grabbed onto his forearm tight enough to bruise and his teeth sank into the inside of Ford’s wrist.

Well, Ford was wrong on rare (rare) occasions.

“ _OW!_ ” He yelled, trying to yank away. Sharp teeth were digging into his flesh and--since when were Fiddleford’s teeth _sharp_?

Fiddleford paused, and he glared at Ford. It sent shivers down his spine, because Fiddleford looked nigh on _feral_ , and this close Ford could finally see: Fiddleford’s pupils were _slits_ , blown so wide to almost seem normal but slits nonetheless. Something was _wrong_.

Stanford, instead of pulling away again, opted to push Fiddleford off of him. Or try to. Either way, big mistake.

Fiddleford snarled, low and animal, and suddenly one of his thin hands held Stanford’s throat in a choking grip. Fiddleford slammed Stanford flat on his back and Ford wheezed as air was squeezed out of his windpipe. Fiddleford towered over him, still holding Stanford’s (bleeding, rather profusely) wrist. He was panting, and Ford could see his teeth now. Pointed canines. Scarily pointed canines. A mix of Stanford’s blood and his own framed his mouth.

 _Vampire_ , Stanford’s mind supplied. _That's new._

Fiddleford didn't waste too much time before turning his attention back to Ford’s wrist. His mouth closed back over the bite and Ford immediately spasmed; Fiddleford was drinking his blood ( _Fuck_ , how did vampirism become a symptom of the _flu_ ) so fast it _hurt_. But when he struggled, the grip on his neck tightened, a looming threat.

“F-fidds…” He tried, barely audible. Lack of air and draining of blood made it hard to think at all; at this point Stanford just hoped Fiddleford wouldn’t drain him dry. He wouldn’t do that, would he? Fiddleford had to be in there somewhere, and Fiddleford would never... _intentionally_...hurt him.

Fiddleford didn’t seem to hear him. The man was panting as he drank, hot breath on Ford’s skin that tickled and sent shivers down his arm. And he was...moaning. Little growls and groans that sounded like pure ecstasy. It almost felt inappropriate, hearing the sounds coming out of Fiddleford’s mouth. Maybe it was because of the lack of blood flow to his brain, but the feeling of that tight grip on his throat, of being held down, of hearing those moans, it made something twist in Stanford’s lower gut in a...not unpleasant way.

That would be something he’d have to examine another day; it was getting harder and harder for him to stay conscious, which meant it was time for Fiddleford to stop.

“F-f...stop..pluh…” was all Ford could manage, but it seemed to do the trick. That, or Fiddleford was finally sated. The hand around his neck vanished and his intake of breath was so strong his back arched off the ground. He felt bruised--he probably was. Fiddleford pulled back from his wrist with a shuddering, euphoric sigh (Ford _really_ had to think about his internal reaction later), and a different kind of pain washed through Ford as blood began to flow freely out of the wound (dammit, Fidds had cut an artery, fuck fuck fuck fuck _fuck_ ). He tried to pull his wrist away but Fiddleford’s fingers dug in hard enough to bruise, forcing his arm still so Fiddleford could drag his tongue over every trail and drop on his skin. Ford was still dragging air into his neglected lungs and far too woozy to fight back, but--and he couldn't believe this--a part of him didn't want to. Scientific curiosity, yes, but there was something so _lewd_ about the way Fiddleford was licking him, it sent shivers down his spine (later later _later; focus_ )

Then he felt it: a strange, cool, almost tickling feeling on his wrist as Fiddleford licked over it again and again. Slowly, so as not to prompt Fiddleford into any further aggression, Ford propped himself up on his other elbow so he could see. He swallowed audibly, more out of shock than anything else. The bite in his wrist was _healing_ , the tickling feeling was, quite literally, the tissues in his skin reconnecting. Fiddleford was licking up any traces of blood, but his saliva was also healing him.

“Amazing…” Ford breathed, although wincing at the pain of the bruises on his throat. He still felt a little light-headed from it all, and although he had been scared, a little, that perhaps Fiddleford would go too far, it wasn't... _bad_. Like donating blood in a really, really unconventional way. His wrist did feel sore, but so had the crook of his elbow whenever he had donated blood in college. So...okay. Vampirism: not good. But: manageable. And... _fascinating_. Already Stanford was a little excited at the prospect of writing all this down, at finding out more.

A quiet whine brought Ford back down to earth. Fiddleford had licked his wrist clean, and now was pressing his forehead to it, slumping over it, practically. Shudders ran through him in waves, and Ford mentally slapped himself. This was _Fiddleford_ , not some experiment, and whatever the hell happened to him, it couldn't have been good. For all he knew the man was still in pain, after all he had been _bleeding_ out of his _tear ducts_ , not to mention every other hole in his damn face.

“Fiddleford…” He pushed himself up so he was sitting straight. He hesitated to reach out to the man though. The...wild, feral Fiddleford seemed to be gone, but Ford didn't want to chance bringing it out again. As it were, Fiddleford still had a vice grip on his arm.

Fiddleford twitched at the sound of his name. He blinked several times.

“It's--it’s q-quiet now…” He whispered, and slowly, he let go of Stanford’s wrist. Ford let his hand drop, his arm throbbing too much to move it too much. The thump of his hand on the ground made Fiddleford jump, and suddenly the man’s attention was directed on Stanford with sudden focus.

“Stan...Stanford?” His pupils had contracted back to slits, the blue in his eyes standing out strikingly. The man’s expression quickly became more panicked. He latched onto Stanford’s shoulders, grip so tight Ford winced.

“Stanford! I’m sorry, I'm so s--” he cut off, eyes losing focus again. He swayed, moaning. His hands slid off of Stanford’s shoulders.

“Sorry…” His eyes rolled up and he collapsed across Stanford’s lap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN INTENSE BEGINNING TO AN INTENSE FIC  
> This is probably going to be the most nsfw fic I've ever written. I can't believe my first time publishing any nsfw writing is fiddauthor. Jeez.  
> small edit: I realized that the way I wrote Yiddish (using phonetics and not the written script) makes it nigh on impossible to reverse google translate it and get a proper translation so I will provide all translations here! My apologies!
> 
> Translation: "Thank God and all the prophets."


	2. Chapter 2

“Fiddleford!?” Stanford picked Fiddleford up in his arms; the man was completely limp. “Fidds?”

For a frantic moment he thought the man was dead, but after a pause he could see the rise and fall of Fiddleford’s chest, and in the silence he could hear the man’s breathing. Thank God. It appeared he had only passed out.

Ford realized that he himself was shaking. First Fiddleford was sick, then he was dead, then he was alive, then he was a vampire, then he drank Ford’s blood, and now he was...asleep. Again, so much had happened in so little time it sent Ford reeling.

“F-fidds…” This time it was a whisper, and Ford found himself pulling his friend close, burying his face in Fiddleford’s neck. He breathed and all he could smell was sweat and blood but he didn't care. The close contact was a comfort. And contrary to myths and legends, Fiddleford’s skin wasn’t cold. In fact, it was warm, too warm. Like a furnace, but not...burning hot, not like a fever. It reminded Ford that his friend, despite everything, was still alive. It was nice…

That is, until he remembered the quite literal mess they were in. Stanford straightened, keeping Fiddleford close. The man was still wearing his pyjamas, a ratty old t-shirt and striped pants--all almost soaked completely red with blood. The back of his clothes seemed more soaked than his front. Thinking back to the bathroom, Stanford guessed that maybe Fiddleford had collapsed in that pool of blood.

He’d have to clean that up, as well as the rest of the blood splattered through the house if he wanted to avoid it permanently staining everything. But...Fiddleford was also a mess; he needed cleaning up too. And Fiddleford was far more important than the house.

Stanford did his best to stand, with Fiddleford in his arms. Normally he could easily accomplish this feat, but he had forgotten he had had his blood drained barely a minute ago. As soon as he was on two feet the room spun; he managed to stumble and collapse on the bed. With Fiddleford beneath him.

“Shit! Sorry Fiddleford I--” He quickly pushed himself off his friend and sighed. “You’re still asleep.”

He didn’t remember Fiddleford being that heavy a sleeper, but everything was different now. Ford now had no idea what Fiddleford’s needs were--besides blood, that is. Stanford’s eyes flitted to the window, to which he was glad to find the curtains drawn. Not that it was really sunny out, in fact storm clouds seemed to be forming, but it was better to be safe than sorry...Perhaps that’s why Fiddleford had passed out. It was daytime, and if vampires couldn’t go out in daylight the next logical conclusion would be that they were nocturnal, and as such, so would Fiddleford be. And what he had just been through was no doubt exhausting, so he would be out for a while.

So first things first: Ford had to get his blood sugar up. It would be no help at all if he over-exerted himself and passed out. He situated Fiddleford more fully on the bed, checked the man’s pulse just to be safe (it was there), walked--well, more wobbled, really--out of the room and made his way down to the kitchen. He was pretty sure they had cookies or candy somewhere--neither of them had huge sweet tooths, but they usually had some junk food lying around to munch on. As he rummaged through drawers and cabinets, he frowned. His coat sleeves were stained with blood, likely Fiddleford’s and his own; his hands were bloodstained, too. He probably had quite a few bloodstains all over. He glanced down to his feet and groaned. At some point he must have stepped in blood, he had tracked it all the way to the kitchen. Dammit. More things to clean up.

He found a box of oreos in a drawer. Those would suffice. Quietly he took off his coat and hung it on the back of a chair, before sitting down with the oreos and trying to figure how the hell this all happened.

It couldn’t have been anything in the hour Ford was gone: there were no signs of forced entry, or of Fiddleford being in any sort of fight. There were no signs of any monster at all. If it had been, he would hope Fiddleford would try to warn him; but Ford had a hard time believing it was an actual monster. Again, the evidence would suggest a precise attack, but Ford knew of no monster this cruel or calculating. Ford considered the possibility that Fiddleford had always _been_ a vampire and this was just his vampire body reacting to the flu but quickly dismissed it; Fiddleford went in the daylight all the time, and he ate regular food, and Ford would hope he’d have noticed right away if Fiddleford’s pupils were slits. Maybe Fiddleford had actually been infected with something out in the forest? And the flu _and_ vampirism were symptoms of what he had caught? Yet...unless Fiddleford was hiding something from him, they only went out into the forest together; if Fiddleford was infected then Ford would be as well, and Ford was, well, he felt fine. It was a possibility that Ford was immune to whatever it was, but then _what_ exactly was making _him_ immune?

Ford ate through half of the box before deciding that running his mind in circles to be a fruitless endeavor. Once Fiddleford was awake, and--hopefully--lucid, he would be able to provide Ford with answers. Again, _hopefully_. Because Ford needed answers if he wanted to figure out what this was and how to fix it.

His gut twisted at the idea that he might not be able to.

What if he _couldn’t_ fix Fiddleford? Maybe being a vampire had it’s advantages, but right now Ford couldn’t see them. With a nocturnal and blood-filled lifestyle, Fiddleford would barely have a chance at a normal life at all-- _lord_ would he even be able to see Tate ever again? That little boy loved his father to death! But if Fiddleford had attacked Ford like that, could he be trusted around his own son? If Stanford couldn’t find a way to cure this, there was a possibility Tate would have to be kept away from his father. Indefinitely.

_And it’s my fault._ Ford swallowed, throat suddenly dry. Even if he wasn’t directly responsible for this, he had had a hand in it. _He_ was the one who called Fiddleford up here, _he_ was the one who dragged the man on endless endeavours despite only being employed to help with the portal, _he_ was the one who put Fiddleford in harm’s way every time. And now Fiddleford had finally taken the fall.

“I gotta fix this.” He breathed, reaching for another cookie. He found none: he had eaten the whole box in his distraction.

“Hm, I should remind myself never to do that again.” He told himself. “It can’t possibly be healthy.”

Healthy it may not be, but Ford felt a lot less woozy than he did before, which was good. After throwing out the box, he gathered cleaning supplies from the closet in the hallway--mop, scrub brushes, bleach, soap, and rags. He hauled all of it up in a bucket and set it outside the bathroom. After taking a deep breath and steeling himself once again, he went into the bathroom.

It almost felt worse this time around, perhaps because adrenaline and panic wasn’t rushing through him and he had just eaten. The overwhelming smell of blood made his stomach flip horribly. A part of him wanted to clean up the bathroom right this instant, but no. Fiddleford first.

He skirted around the giant pool of blood as best he could and made his way to the other side of the bathroom, which was mostly bloodfree. The shower was clean, at least. Ford dragged the small tub in the corner underneath the showerhead, wincing at the grating sound of metal against wood. Once the tub was correctly placed he turned on the shower and made sure the water was warm and angled to only one end of the tub. He grabbed a few towels from the linen closet and set them next to the shower.

“That should do it.” He muttered, dusting his hands off. He skirted his way back around the blood and to Fiddleford’s room, where, as he predicted, Fiddleford was still unconscious. He hadn’t even fidgeted or shifted in his sleep since Ford had left. This time when Ford picked him up, he managed to stay on two feet.

“You’re probably going to be out until at least nightfall, aren’t you?” Ford sighed as he trotted back to the bathroom. He didn’t expect an answer and he didn’t receive one. It was even harder to edge around the blood pool with a body in his arms. Thankfully he managed to get Fiddleford to the mercifully clean toilet. It was a bit of a challenge to get him sitting on the seat--he ended up leaning on Ford heavily as he tried to remove the man’s clothes.

It was an awkward process, to say the least. If Stanford wasn’t already blushing by the time he managed to shimmy Fiddleford’s shirt and pants off, he was bright red when he got to the man’s boxers.

“Come on, Stanford,” He chided himself, “He can’t just stay covered in blood like this. And he’s done it for you before, remember that somno-slime we found? And he didn’t seem too bothered about it, because you’re _friends_. _Friends_ take care of each other. And...sometimes...that includes... _bathing_...the other...yes. _Okay_. Man up, Stanford.”

He at first tried to touch Fiddleford as little as possible, but then Fiddleford nearly fell forward off the toilet. In the end, Ford was kneeling with his head propping Fiddleford’s chest up as he tried to shimmy the man’s underwear off, eyes decidedly closed.

_This is a first_ , His mind unhelpfully supplied. Then, the part of his brain that sounded infuriatingly familiar although distorted by time: _Kinky, Sixer._

Ford groaned in frustration and tried not to blush harder. Underwear discarded he scooped Fiddleford up bridal-style and carried him over to the still running shower. The tub was roughly half full. Good enough. Ford gently set Fiddleford down, positioning him so his head would stay above water. Most of the mechanic’s skin was stained a faint red from the blood soaking through his clothes. It seeped off of him into the water. Ford quickly dampened a sponge and grabbed a bar of soap from the corner.

And of course, because the Fates seemed to have something against Stanford today, the soap slipped right out of his hand and splashed into the tub.

“Oh fuck me.” Ford hissed. He glanced at Fiddleford who, true to form, hadn't stirred the whole time. “I bet this didn't happen to you. God _dammit_.”

He turned the shower off so he could see better (and the water was high enough anyway) but the water was murky with blood now. Stan couldn't find the soap by vision alone. With a groan he rolled up his sleeve up as high as he could and dipped his hand in.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry.” He mumbled repeatedly, especially whenever he grazed skin. It wasn’t like it was that inappropriate, but lord did Ford feel seven levels of inappropriate. Especially when he grabbed something that definitely _wasn’t a bar of soap._

“Sorry!” Ford withdrew his hand like it had been electrocuted, face burning. It wasn’t like Fiddleford was awake to respond. Ford slumped.

“Dem iz a balagan.” He dragged his clean hand down his face. “Ir _shlimazl_.”

Sighing, he sat back up and resumed searching for the bar of soap. This time he managed to find it without any more embarrassing incidents. He sudsed up the sponge, this time keeping a proper grip on the soap. Gently he began to clean away the blood on Fiddleford’s face.

It struck him how vulnerable the mechanic looked. He had just exhibited almost superhuman strength not too long ago but Ford couldn't perceive him as anything but _fragile_. Yet Fiddleford had always had that hidden strength about him--many a bully would take a go at him since he looked so weak only to find _themselves_ on the ground instead of him. Maybe he didn't have much in terms of physical strength (at least back then) but the man knew physics like the back of his hand and, more impressively, knew how to use it in a fight. It never changed the soft look about him, though. Or his gentleness.

Ford realized he was blushing, but not out of embarrassment this time. He bit his lip and tried to ignore the feeling; he’d rather analyze it when he was _alone_ , and not bathing his best friend who he was quickly realizing was _more_ than a best friend to him. Which made everything so much more _complicated_ than he needed things to be right now. But his mind ceased to be silent at the worse of times.

“I just...I feel so _sorry_ , Fidds.” He groaned aloud, even as he kept gently cleaning away blood. “I just...all this time, I never--I’ve never really felt anything, for _anyone_. I never knew what it felt like, so with you I thought--I thought it was just _friendship_. All this time, I thought we were just really really close friends. But then I thought you were _dead_ and I was just so _so_ afraid I lost you because I--I--you mean so much to me, so much more than a friend. And it took almost losing you to make me realize that if I _really_ did, I...I wouldn’t know what to do with myself. You just--it’s be--because I...I _love_ you, Fiddleford.”

He said it so calmly it didn’t sink in for a second. Then Stanford yelped and pushed himself away, surprised at his own confession. The sponge dropped from his hands.

“I said that out loud.” He whispered at way too high a pitch, hands tugging through his hair. “I said that out loud holy _fuck_ …”

Again he slumped, head resting against the edge of the tub.

“Well, I’ve--I’ve said it now.” He mumbled. “And it’s...it’s true. And I feel like an _idiot_ for not realizing it sooner. Because I’m too late, aren’t I? You’ve got a kid, you’ve got a family, and--shit I’m your goddamn _boss_. And it’s the worst timing; you just went through a traumatic experience that’s--that’s at least _partially_ my fault. How could--this couldn’t even work, could it? Oy vey…”

He turned so his back was resting against the tub, and over his shoulder he watched the small rise and fall of Fiddleford’s shoulders. The mechanic was still dead to the world.

“And here I am talking to you like you’re awake. Thank God you’re not. You don’t need to see what a mess I am. When you wake up, I promise everything will be normal--as normal as it can be now--and we’ll still be friends. We can still be friends, because I never said any of this. At all. It never happened. So we’re still just friends.”

That seemed like a plan. A nice, logical, rational plan. Ford picked the sponge back up and resumed cleaning Fiddleford in twisted silence. He wouldn’t let himself speak. The last thing he needed was more catastrophes to slip past his lips.

It took almost a whole hour to get Fiddleford fully clean, and the only reason it took so long was because Stanford kept becoming a flustered mess. What he was doing was so intimate but at the same time he couldn’t allow it to be but at the same time his thoughts would wander to levels reminiscient of a pubescent teenager’s. Then he’d have to mentally kick himself, clear his mind, and feel endlessly guilty for thinking those kind of things about his _friend_.

That said, it was a relief to finally pick Fiddleford up again, wrapped in a towel and clean. Ford almost felt protective, of the man bundled in his arms. It didn’t help that Fiddleford curled into him reflexively; it made his heart stutter in the most lovestruck way and it made it so much harder to follow his plan.

_We’re just friends._

Ford didn’t bother bringing Fiddleford back to his room: his bedsheets were a bloody mess, another thing Ford had to clean, so doing that would have made cleaning Fiddleford absolutely pointless. Stanford instead carried the man all the way to his own room. He did pause at the doorway, grumbling at the fact that his boots would track blood in and make it _another_ thing Ford had to clean, but Fiddleford deserved a nice place to sleep. As soon as Fiddleford was laid down Ford remembered the mechanic was naked. Quickly he rushed back to Fiddleford’s room and rummaged through his drawers until he had something decent for the man to wear.

Stanford predicted that dressing Fiddleford would be as uncomfortable as undressing him, so he opted to simply lay the clothes on the end of the bed for Fiddleford to find when he woke up. He also decided to leave a note in case Fiddleford was feeling disoriented when he awoke. After many failed attempts and crumpled balls thrown in a trash can, on the bedside table he left this:

_Fiddleford,_

_Don’t worry. You’re alive and safe, and I am alive and safe. You’re in my room because your room is a mess. Yes, you seemed to have become a vampire, and that is rather concerning. But I promise that I will figure this out and get you back to your old self as soon as I can. If I’m not still cleaning up the house I should be in the basement trying to research your condition. You can come find me when you’re feeling up to it._

_Again, don’t worry. Everything will be alright, I promise._

_-Ford_

Ford deemed that sufficient. Once he set it properly within Fiddleford’s line of sight so he couldn’t miss it, he paused. He couldn’t very well leave Fiddleford with just a towel now, could he? Awkwardly he shifted Fiddleford so he was under the sheets and took the towel away, pulling the blankets up to tuck him in. In the process Fiddleford’s hair became mussed, and Ford couldn’t resist brushing it out of the man’s face. Seeing Fiddleford safe, and _peaceful_ , so peaceful, the man looked so happy when he was asleep it was _adorable_ , it made Ford’s heart stutter all over again.

“Bei mir bist du shayn.” It rushed out of his mouth before he could stop it. Sighing, he pulled away and left the room, closing the door softly behind him. Now he could focus on cleaning the house, researching vampires, and logically combating his feelings so they wouldn’t ruin a perfectly good friendship.

He remembered reading an old fairytale about a man locking away his heart (quite literally) so he could never be touched by emotion and dimly wondered if he could somehow accomplish the same feat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I WILL CAMPAIGN DEMISEXUAL/DEMIROMANTIC FORD TILL THE END OF MY DAYS  
> (poor Ford with your realization, I know exactly the feel...) (also, denial never works for anybody, Sixer)
> 
> Translations:
> 
> 1) "This is a mess. You unlucky person."
> 
> 2) "To me you are beautiful."
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


	3. Chapter 3

Stanford groaned as he dumped the bucket down the drain for what felt like the hundredth time (it was really only the eleventh, he had been counting). Cleaning the house had proven to be a daunting task; there was just so much blood  _ everywhere _ . He’d been working for, what, five or six hours now? Once he changed out of his bloodstained clothes he had thrown himself straight into cleaning the whole house. He had donned an old lab apron to keep his clean clothes clean and he had even kept his hair out of the way with a handkerchief. It didn’t help that he had to keep taking breaks to air out the scent of bleach from his lungs--in the end he had just opened several of the windows in the house. It was much colder now, but at least Stanford could breathe. 

It also didn't help that it was emotionally taxing, as well. Blood had never really bothered Stanford, it was a displeasure he could usually distance himself from. But every time he scrubbed away a handprint he felt sick because all he could imagine was Fiddleford putting it there. Every time he looked at that damned pool of blood he could  _ see _ Fiddleford lying in it, bleeding out, in god knows what agony. It took every ounce of strength in his body to not go bolting to his room to make sure the mechanic was there and alive. Hell, he almost straight  _ fainted _ when he found four human canines while he was trying to clean the floor. Stanford had tried to look on the (still very grim) positive side: at least he knew how Fiddleford’s teeth became sharp, they had been quite literally replaced. But again all he could imagine was Fiddleford suffering through his ordeal.

_ If something  _ did _ do this to him, _ He had thought, setting the teeth aside to study later,  _ I’m going to kill them myself _ .

Of course, he then quickly tried to suppress any thought of Fiddleford, and the feelings he harbored for the blonde mechanic. He found that it was far easier to stamp his emotions down and away rather than wrestle with them; especially when he was so focused on cleaning he hardly had time for any other thought.

He turned the shower on to refill the bucket. Surveying his work so far, he figured that this would be the last bucket he needed before he was done mopping the bathroom. Although, after all the torture the poor mop had endured today, he’d have to get a new one. He stretched his arms above his head and grunted, taking a little break while the bucket refilled.

He actually almost missed it under his grunt, but he thought he heard something, almost like a chuckle.

“Hm?” He peered towards the doorway, arms dropping. No one was there. “Fidds?”

No response. It was probably just the floorboards or something. Ford shrugged and leaned on the (now clean) sink, examining his face in the mirror. He was tired, and more than a little sweaty: he could probably do with a wash himself once he was done working.

“At least you saved the bathroom for last, eh Ford?” He told himself. “Else the rest of the house would still be a mess.”

“Although…” He added, slumping a little, “Then there’s still the laundry…”

_ Although _ , his thoughts told him,  _ more work means less thinking about you know who, and will help follow your plan... _

True, so there was an advantage to keeping himself busy. But there was no advantage to being exhausted. Maybe he should take a nap after he finished cleaning. It was certainly well-deserved.

“I--I can do the laundry…”

The soft voice made him jump. He turned and all thoughts of following his plan went crashing out the window.

Fiddleford stood in the doorway, tugging at the sleeves of his cardigan and avoiding eye contact. He was hunched over a little, something he did whenever he was nervous. But other than that, he seemed fine, and that’s all that mattered to Ford.

“Fidds!” He grinned. “You’re awake.”

He reached out but quickly retracted, remembering that he was wearing gloves that were covered in bleach and blood. He hurriedly took them off as he spoke.

“How are you feeling? Are you alright?” He checked his watch: 6:18 PM, past sunset. Definitely checked out with the nocturnal theory.

“I’m...I’m, uh, I think I’m okay. As okay as I can be.” Fiddleford answered, not sounding very sure at all.

“Here let me have a look--” Ford approached, but Fiddleford immediately backed away. Panic mixed with the nerves in his features now.

“D-don’t. I don’t want to hurt you.” His voice held that low, warning tone it had had the last time Fiddleford tried to warn him away. Ford frowned.

“Are your predatory instincts that strong?” There was more curiosity than concern in his voice, which wasn't particularly wise, but Ford had always been a scientist first, wise man second.

“N-no, I--I don’t think so,” Fiddleford shook his head. “Not right now, I just…”

Ford realized the mechanic’s eyes were glued to Ford’s throat, and the bruises that had formed on it. Oh. Subconsciously he graced his fingers along the bruises. It wasn’t like they really hurt. Only when he touched them--or when he talked or bent his neck, but the pain was so easy to ignore it wasn’t worth mentioning. But the few times he had glanced at them in the mirror, they did look pretty nasty.

“Fiddleford, it’s okay, I’m fine.” He smiled reassuringly. Fiddleford wasn’t reassured.

“That’s what you said...in your note…” He murmured, eyes not moving. He leaned forward a little, to scrutinize the bruises. “Did...did I do that?”

Ford decided to neither confirm or deny that. He didn’t want Fiddleford to panic.

“What do you remember, Fiddleford? What happened?” He asked instead, inching a little closer. Fiddleford was immediately caught up in his own memory, so he didn’t back away again.

“Well, I remember...I remember you leaving for the grocery store...and feeling absolutely horrid. Then I think I...I passed out or something, but the next thing I knew I was coughin’ really bad, and my stomach hurt somethin’ fierce. And then...blood. So much blood, everywhere,” The man started to shake, eyes wide and unseeing, “I tried to make it to the bathroom--it didn’t matter, I couldn’t stop it, it was--I remember...seeing blood, all over my face. I was...I was losing it all, I couldn't b-b-breathe and...it  _ hurt _ \--s-screaming, falling...I remember waking up and seeing everything too clearly and too bright, and everything was too loud, my breathing, my heartbeat, the wind outside, the  _ house _ and--it hurt it was so loud. And...I was  _ hungry _ . I was  _ so _ hungry it was the only thing I could think about outside the p-pain. I tried to run away from it all, I tried to hide away so it wouldn’t hurt so much. I remember hearin’ the door, and then  _ you _ ...I tried to keep you away ‘cause I realized what I was hungry for but you c-came in anyway…”

Fiddleford trailed off, eyes widening even further. Ford had a feeling that if the man wasn’t already so pale he’d blanch even further. Oh boy. So much for trying not to make Fiddleford panic.

Fiddleford’s head snapped up, looking plain  _ horrified _ .

“Oh--oh  _ god _ I did do it!” He gasped, covering his mouth with his hands. “Oh no oh no oh no  _ Stanford _ \--”

“Fiddleford.  _ Fidds _ !” Ford tried to calm him down. “It's okay, I'm fine.”

“No you’re not!” Fiddleford wailed. He reached for Ford’s wrist, the one he had bit, but Ford saw the man’s fearful hesitation and held it up for him to see.

“Yes, I am!” He insisted, showing his wrist. There was a faint scar, but the wound was completely healed. The bruises were a little more concerning, but again: they only hurt when he touched them. 

“Wha--but, but--” Fiddleford’s brow knit in his confusion. “Y--oh  _ no  _ did I make you a--”

“No, no you didn't.” Ford shook his head. “I'm still human.”

“Then--then how--”

“You, actually. Your, ah, your saliva seems to have healing capabilities.” Ford explained.

“My  _ saliva _ ?”

“Ah, well, yes. After you drank from me you kind of, uh, licked the bite and it, well, it healed. So no worries!” Ford grinned and waggled his fingers to show all was well.

“No  _ worries _ ?” Fiddleford echoed incredulously, southern accent becoming more pronounced the more scattered he became. “I drank yer blood, Stanford--I damn near killed you!”

“No, no you didn't.” Ford said firmly. “You took no more from me than a nurse would at a blood drive. I ate some cookies and I was fine. Is the situation ideal? No. But it sure as hell could be a lot worse. Please relax Fiddleford.”

“I had m-my hand around y-yer throat,” Fiddleford mumbled, trapped in the memory. He ran his hands through his hair. He was shaking very badly now, and his voice cracked. “I could have snapped yer d-damn  _ neck… _ ”

“Hey, hey,” Ford grabbed Fiddleford’s shoulders gently, making the man start and look him in the eye. Whenever Fiddleford slouched like this the two were eye-level with each other; again Ford couldn't help but notice how brightly the blue of Fiddleford’s eyes stood out now that his pupils were slits. Ford tried to be as soothing as possible. “You didn't snap my neck.  _ That's  _ what matters. I'm not mad at you, and I know you didn't mean it. If anything, it’s a little bit my fault, I provoked you. You shouldn't feel guilty about this, Fiddleford. You just went through an exhausting, traumatic experience that changed your body in ways that we still don't fully comprehend yet. No one could expect you to have control. Don't blame yourself, Fidds,  _ please _ .”

“But I--”

“ _ Please _ ,” Ford repeated, pulling the man into an embrace. He ignored the fact that Fiddleford practically froze under the close contact (and how that hurt, a little bit). “I don’t know if you remember me saying this, but I told you before that there’s not a thing in this whole universe that could convince me you would ever hurt me. And after today? I still believe that. I’m gonna fix this, buddy. I  _ swear _ I’ll find a way to change you back.”

After a long, almost unbearably long pause, Fiddleford relaxed in his arms. He felt palms rest against his chest, over his heart. The mechanic seemed to be burying his face in Ford’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry…” Ford barely caught it.

“Don’t be.” He rubbed his friend’s back comfortingly. The contact was nice, a comfort for both of them. Ford fought the urge to cling to it.

“...Thank you, Stanford.”

“That's what friends are for, right?” Stanford pulled away to give his  _ friend _ a warm smile. Fiddleford huffed a weak laugh.

“Friends in unorthodox situations, it always seems.” He said. Ford smiled wider.

“And unorthodox is our specialty!” He piped.

After a strange pause, Stanford realized he may have been staring into Fiddleford’s eyes for too long. He quickly looked away, clearing his throat.

“So, um,” He rushed, “How  _ are _ you feeling? Now I mean? Do you still have any flu symptoms, coughing, headaches?”

“Nope,” Fiddleford shook his head. “I feel fit as a Fiddleford.” He giggled at his own joke; he always did. Ford was glad he was feeling okay enough to crack that old one. 

“Everything’s really clear though...like, all of my senses. Everything’s...I dunno,  _ sharper _ .” The blonde added. 

“Well, I suppose being a vampire means you have heightened senses. It fixed your eyesight, at least. Which is good, because,” again Stanford coughed awkwardly, reaching into his back pocket. “You broke your glasses.”

“Oh…” Fiddleford gingerly took the broken spectacles out of Ford’s hand, inspecting the cracked lenses. “I guess I’ll have to get new ones. Somehow. If I’m a...a vampire, like you say, I can’t really go outside during the day, can I?”

“I would imagine so, but if it’s all the same, I don’t want to test it. Not if it could hurt you.” Ford told him, trying not to frown. In traditional myth a vampire would burn to death in the sunlight. There was no way in hell he was going to risk Fiddleford’s life to see if it was true.

“I suppose it won’t matter until I’m back to normal…” Fiddleford agreed. After a pause, he fixed Stanford with those piercing blue eyes again. “Do  _ you _ have any idea what’s going on?”

“I--I wish I did, Fidds,” Ford sighed. Truth to tell, he was disappointed in himself. He was supposed to be an expert on these kinds of things, but all he knew with respect to this were the common myths and legends everyone knew about vampires. “I’ve never come across vampires before, and I haven’t had a chance to do any tests on your blood--I collected a few samples while I was cleaning, but well, I’ve been cleaning.”

“All this time you’ve been  _ cleaning _ ?” Fiddleford frowned.

“Well,  _ yes _ . This isn’t some kind of Murder Hut.” Ford shrugged. “The last thing we need is suspicious looking bloodstains everywhere. As it is, I’ll be lucky if I ever clean it out of the tile.” He nodded over his shoulder at the bathroom floor behind him.

That’s when he noticed the now overflowing bucket in the still running shower.

“Shit!” He pivoted on his heel and bolted for the shower. Which he really shouldn’t have done considering the slick floor. The Fates  _ really _ were showing him no mercy today. What did Stanford ever do to them to deserve this?

His feet had no traction on the tile and he flipped forward with a strangled squawk. He prevented a face to floor collision by catching himself on his palms, but he still landed with his ass in the air and shower spraying on his head. He could barely hear his own moan of pain over the sound of Fiddleford’s laughter.

“Oh--oh  _ no _ \--” Fiddleford gasped around his mirth, “S--Ford, are you--oh mighty lord--are you--are you alright?”

“No, I think my dignity just died.” Ford sighed painfully, not even bothering to right himself just yet. He shifted a little, trying to determine what was bruised and what wasn’t.

“ _ Oh _ ...oh no, Stanford, that’s been good and well deceased since spring break of junior year.” Fiddleford giggled, although there was a strange note in his voice, something he couldn’t place. Ford pushed himself up to his knees and turned the shower off.

“I still wish you would tell me what happened that night.” Ford shot the mechanic a scathing glare that had no effect.

“And I made a promise--if you’re ever gonna hear about it, it ain’t gonna be from me.” Fiddleford fired back with a smirk, folding his arms over his chest. The way his lips pulled back revealed one of his sharper canines, making the smile look far more dangerous and...dare Ford say it,  _ rakish _ . 

_ Hot damn _ , that old familiar voice was back in his head again,  _ Does he do that for all the girls?--Quit starin’ at him! _

Ford quickly averted his gaze, praying to God he wasn’t visibly blushing. Hurriedly he pushed himself to his feet and pulled the bucket out of the shower; it sloshed water everywhere but Ford didn't really care: he was going to mop it all around anyways. That being said, he reached for the mop.

“I’ll just finish up here, then we can focus on--”

“Now wait,  _ wait _ ,” Fiddleford stopped him, smirk replaced by a frown. “Just how long have you been at this, Stanford?”

“Uh...since I--ahem--since I cleaned you up.” Ford answered.

“And what time was that at? Thank you by the way. Couldn't have been fun.” Fiddleford added. Ford tried not to think about it.

“It was fine. Don't mention it...and uh, that happened around noon, I believe.” 

“Sweet sarsaparilla! You’ve been working this whole time!?” Fiddleford cried. He fiercely shook his head. “No no, that's it, no more for you.”

He snatched the mop away before Ford even had the time to think. 

“Hey, give that back! I need to finish cleaning the bathroom.” He whined. Fiddleford kept the mop out of his reach.

“ _ You  _ need to rest. I drank your blood Stanford, you and I both know a couple of cookies don't fix that!  _ I’ll _ finish the cleaning. And when I said I'd do the laundry I meant it. It won't be no trouble if I finish this up too; it's my fault for it anyhow.”

“No it’s n--but--” As if Fiddleford had finally brought the fact to his body’s attention, Stanford began to feel the weariness in his bones. Truth to tell, he  _ was  _ tired. But he  _ hated _ leaving things unfinished, and more than that he wanted  _ Fiddleford  _ to be the one taking it easy.

“The only ‘but’ should be yours, gettin’ to bed.” Fiddleford set the mop aside and grabbed Ford’s hands, pulling him out of the bathroom. Stanford would resist, but Fiddleford’s warm hands made him remember how cold it was in the house: he never closed any of the windows. The warmth felt nice. And the grip was far too strong anyway, so it's not like he could escape.

“Fiddleford,  _ really _ \--”

“Yes, really.” Once they were in the hallway, Fiddleford let go of his hands (internally Ford bemoaned the loss) and switched to pushing him from behind. “You go take a nap, and I’ll finish up all the cleanin’, and then I’ll fix us--you up some dinner, alright?”

Ford swiveled out of Fiddleford’s hands and turned to face him, although he made it clear he was obeying by backing up a few steps.

“Fiddleford, you don't have to--”

“ _ Please _ ,” Fiddleford insisted, and Ford noted the sad look in the man’s eyes. “I'm the one who made this mess in the first place, I'm the one who hurt you, please let me make it up to you.”

“What? There’s nothing to make up for--”

“For me, Stanford.” Fiddleford pleaded; his hands were clenched at his sides, and Ford felt his heart pang at the mixture of sadness and  _ guilt _ there. Fiddleford shouldn't be feeling like that! But the man wouldn't hear a word of it. “Just do it for me.”

“Alright.” Ford sighed, finally giving in. He ran a hand through his hair--or he would have, if not for the handkerchief. He tugged it off. “Wake me up in an hour, okay?”

It was strange, but Stanford could see Fiddleford shove the sadness and guilt down and hide it away to giggle.

“Of course, of course,” He grinned, eyes twinkling, “Now shoo, ya fluffy ol’ chicken.”

Stanford snorted and rolled his eyes at that--it probably had to do with whatever terrible state his hair was in with the handkerchief off. But he complied, trudging down the hallway and to his room.

He told himself he was going to stay awake for a little bit, try to siphon more information from what Fiddleford had told him. But he fell unconscious as soon his head hit the pillow, and instead of Fiddleford’s condition the last thing he thought of was that heart-fluttering little smirk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't claim to be good at ciphers or even attempt them but at least I can sneak in references and jokes ;)  
> Anyways, there might actually start being consistent updates? For a little bit at least. Once a week, folks! Get excited!  
> (also I can say with confidence two more chapters until the dirty stuff ;) )


	4. Chapter 4

_ Sunny day. Warm breeze. Flashing--storm, too many colors. Nothing constant. Fiddleford? Oh, that feels nice…--flashing--static--where’s that damn book--so good, feels so good--blood, blood everywhere--Fiddleford!--running, chasing--get away, get away now--so close, so close please, I need, I need--reds, too many reds, but oranges and yellows and purples, and flashing--I’m sorry, I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have--changing--Lee!--too fast--cut it out with that dumb banjo--no! No! Get off! Stop stop stop!--a rainbow of colors, a galaxy, so beautiful, too beautiful--no, please!--burning, burning everywhere, can’t breathe, can’t breathe--I can’t lose him, I can’t lose him! Fiddleford! _

Stanford bolted up in his bed gasping for breath. All he could hear was his heart hammering in his chest. He clutched at his chest like that would make it slow down. With his free hand he reached out for his glasses, but after a bit of fumbling he realized he was still wearing them. Woops, he probably had some lovely marks on his face for that mistake. And they didn’t help much anyway: his room was dark.

“Breathe, Stanford,” He muttered to himself, trying to shake away his disorientation, “It was just a dream. Just a dream.”

Once his breathing had slowed and he no longer felt like he might have a heart attack he sank back down into the sheets.

What even  _ was _ that? Usually Stanford’s dreams were clearcut, strange sure, but clear. Straightforward. The last time he remembered having a dream this surreal was...hell he couldn’t even remember. A while ago. He remembered having eclectic flashing dreams like that when he was little. They used to scare him and he’d crawl into bed with...and sometimes their Ma would come in because she heard them, and she’d comfort them and amaze them with tales of how those dreams weren’t normal dreams.

_ “When ya dreams ain’t like normal dreams, it’s because they ain’t dreams.” She said, waving her hands about dramatically. _

_ “Really?” A little boy gasped. She nodded. _

_ “Mmhmm. It’s our minds catching glimpses of the future!”  _

_ “No way, that’s wicked!” _

_ “That doesn’t sound real.” The second little boy frowned. Their mother nodded solemnly. _

_ “It runs in our blood, boys. I got it from my ma, and y’all got it from me.” _

_ “Cool!” _

_ “But if they’re visions of the future, how come they’re so...crazy? And fast?”  _

_ “Well, the future can always change, right? Futures fly by so fast our minds can’t catch a hold of ‘em all, so we only get bits or pieces.” _

_ “Hm…” The boy frowned skeptically. His twin was far more excited about this apparent clairvoyance. _

_ “Awesome! Hey Sixer, what didya see? Maybe it’ll come true!” He pressed, shaking the other’s shoulder. _

_ “I--I dunno! Like I said, it was really fast. There were….blues, and lots and lots of yellows. Just like...a lot of yellow. It was weird.” _

_ “Yellow like gold treasure?” The other piped, grinning wildly. _

_ “No, not yellow like gold. Yellow like...I dunno. Bad. I dunno! It was weird!” The boy cried defensively, recoiling away a little. _

_ “Leave your brother alone,” Their mother chided. “Both of yous should be going back to sleep!” _

_ “Right away, Ma! I wanna see if I get any cool future dreams!” _

Stanford had always been highly skeptical of his mother’s tall tales. If he remembered anything from these dreams, which he often didn’t, they never came true, at least not to any extent Stanford was aware of. Already his dream was blurring away, lost in the recesses of his own mind. No point in dwelling on it.

If it hadn’t been for his erratic dream, however, Stanford would likely believe that everything that had happened--Fiddleford almost being dead, Fiddleford becoming a vampire, Stanford realizing emotions are dumb and painful and he should just get rid of them, the unkind, unkind Fates--had been a dream itself. But no, no it wasn’t. Fiddleford was a vampire. Stanford was hopelessly in love with him and likely had been for years without realizing it. The Fates were cruel. In under twenty four hours Stanford’s life had taken a bit of an unexpected turn. 

With a groan he reached out and switched his bedside lamp on. His eyes protested the brightness, but he ignored it, blinking to try and focus on the clock across the room. After a few moments, he gleaned it was half past eight. He huffed with a little irritation. Fiddleford was supposed to wake him up after only an hour. He figured he shouldn't be too surprised, Fiddleford seemed to be really worried about him for whatever reason. Stanford felt it should be the other way around: after all, it was  _ Fiddleford _ that had just been sent through the wringer, not him.

Speaking of, he really should go check on the mechanic. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up, stretching his arms high above his head. He was still wearing his clothes from before, and now they were all wrinkled. But at least he had taken off his messy apron before he passed out. 

Slowly he made his way down the hall--noting that the bathroom was completely clean now--and down the stairs to the kitchen. It was only then he smelled it--Fiddleford had made him a simple bowl of soup. It was being kept warm on the stove. But Fiddleford was nowhere to be seen. 

“Fidds?” He peered around, looking for the mechanic. After a moment, he thought he heard shuffling coming from the laundry room. 

“Fidds?” He called again. “Are you in--”

Before he could even so much as touch the door handle Fiddleford burst out of the laundry room.

“St-Stanford! There you are! Thought I heard you coming. D-downstairs! Coming down the the stairs, is what I m-meant to say!” The blonde rushed by him and to the kitchen sink. He quickly began to wash his hands. 

“Uh, yeah,” Ford still felt a little groggy, his responses were unusually slow. But he was definitely awake enough to notice Fiddleford’s odd behavior. “Are you alright? You seem a bit...rushed.”

“F-flushed!?” Fiddleford practically jumped, washing his hands even more fervently. “I--I ain’t flushed! I'm fine! Why would you think I’m--”

“ _ Rushed _ , Fidds. Rushed.” Ford corrected, raising an eyebrow. “Seriously, Fiddleford, are you okay?”

“Ru--oh,” Fiddleford relaxed finally, smacking a wet hand to his forehead, “Silly me, I thought you said  _ flushed _ . Sorry about that.”

He dried his hands and turned to face Stanford. Well, now that Fiddleford mentioned it, he  _ did _ look a little flustered. There was a tinge of color to his cheeks and even from this far away Ford could see that the blonde’s pupils were slightly dilated. And he was a little sweaty, although that might just be water from where Fiddleford smacked himself.

After a moment, Fiddleford realized that Stanford’s question still stood unanswered and he shuffled, laughing awkwardly.

“I'm, I'm fine, Ford, really. I'm just--I've kind of been in my own head for a while, trying to sort all this out.” 

Oh, well that made sense. When Fiddleford concentrated on anything too hard he tended to lose touch with the world, and bringing him back down to earth quickly could sometimes disorient him.

“It's okay, I understand.” Ford smiled, waving it off. He stepped towards the stove and immediately cried out.

“Ow!” He hopped back on one foot, clutching the other in pain. What the hell!?

“Oh no! Stanford, are you alright?” Fiddleford ran over to him, taking an arm so Ford wouldn't fall over. 

“Yeah, yeah I think so,” Ford grunted, rubbing his throbbing food tenderly. It didn’t feel like it broke skin, it just hurt a lot. “What the hell did I step on?”

Fiddleford scrutinized the ground and gasped. 

“This!” He let go of Ford to pick up a small piece of glass off the floor. “Dangnabbit, I thought I swept all of this glass up. I’m sorry, Ford.”

“Glass? Why is there broken glass on the floor?” Ford asked, gingerly setting his foot on the ground. At that, Fiddleford stopped making eye contact.

“I’m sorry Ford, I--I might have broke a glass...or two.” He explained quietly. He looked positively guilt-stricken. 

“Fiddleford--”

“And--and don't open the cabinet by the fridge!” Fiddleford added. “I'm sorry, Ford.”

“Oh, Fiddleford, it's okay. It was an accident, no need to be upset.” Ford reached out to pat Fiddleford on the shoulder, but the man was already moving away.

“I was coming to wake you up, I swear, but I got caught up with--uh--t-taking care of the laundry. And--and, I made you soup.” He gestured to the bowl. Before Ford could stop him, he picked it up with both hands.

And promptly shattered it.

Both men jumped as ceramics and soup went flying everywhere (although mostly all over Fiddleford).

“Shit!” Ford cried. “Fidds, are you--”

“Fuckin’  _ dammit _ !” Fiddleford yelled, although not in pain from hot soup. He looked positively irate. “Not again, god  _ fuckin’ _ dammit! Why can’t I just--fuckin’-- _ hold  _ anythin’,  _ fuckin’ hogshit!” _

Okay, it was rare for Fiddleford’s language to get  _ that _ colorful. Ford was filled with equal measures of shock and concern.

“Fiddleford--” He tried, but the mechanic was on a full on rant now. He gestured wildly and kicked around ceramic shards.

“I just wanted ta make some _motherfuckin’_ soup, s’that so hard!? I keep _breakin’_ shit an’ I can’t get anythin’ _right_! I just wanna make up fer the _mess_ I made is that too much to _fuckin’_ _ask_! Apparently it is ‘cause I just keep _breakin’ everythin’ else!_ ”

“Fiddleford, calm down--” Ford reached out to comfort his friend, but he should have known that would be a mistake. In his anger Fiddleford lashed out and knocked Stanford’s hand away with a snarl.

“Ow!” Stanford couldn’t stop the pained cry, immediately drawing his hand into his chest. He imagined it usually wouldn’t hurt this bad, vampire-strength or no, but Fiddleford had hit the bruises he had made earlier.

Fiddleford was immediately drained of all anger. It was instead replaced with guilt-stricken horror. He shrunk away from everything.

“St-stanford, oh my god,” He squeaked, reaching out just the smallest bit. “I’m s-so sorry, I d-didn’t mean to--I--I--”

“Fiddleford,” Stanford shook his head, trying to dispel his concern. “It’s okay, it was an accident.”

“I hurt y-ya, I keep hurtin’ ya…” Fiddleford murmured, trapped in his own panic again. Stanford tried to get his attention, but when he moved forward the mechanic backed away.

“N-no, don’t come close, Ford,” Fiddleford shook his head, holding his hands out defensively, “It’s not, I’m n-not--”

“Fiddleford, calm down, please--” Ford tried. 

“I ain’t--I ain’t safe anymore, Ford--”

“You just hit the bruises, that’s all, you didn’t hurt me--”

“--I k-keep breakin’ things, I keep hurtin’  _ you _ \--” Fiddleford backed up to the oven.

“You didn’t! You need to relax, stressing yourself out is only making it worse--”

“It  _ is _ worse Ford! I’m d-dangerous now, ya should b-be stayin’ away--”

“You’re not and I won’t! You--Fiddleford.” Ford stopped dead, eyes widening.

“Ya keep sayin’ things like that but ya don’t get it--”

“Fiddleford.”

“--ya need ta stay away from me! When I get hungry I’m just gonna--”

“ _ Fiddleford. _ ”

“--hurt ya again, hell I could fuckin’  _ kill _ ya--”

“ _ Fidds! _ ” Stanford yelled finally, pointing to the stove. Which was still on. And currently had Fiddleford’s  _ hand _ on it.

Fiddleford followed Stanford’s point to the source, eyes wide. He didn’t seem to react once he realized; he just  _ stared _ bewilderingly while his hand  _ burned _ !

“God  _ damn _ , Fiddleford!” Stanford rushed to the mechanic’s side, ignoring the soup soaking into his socks to quickly turn off the stove and seize Fiddleford’s hand. He fervently inspected the damage done. “Shit, are you alright?”

“F-fine…” Fiddleford breathed, just as Ford realized.  _ There was no damage _ . Fiddleford’s hand was fine. His skin wasn’t even hot or red or anything. “I...it doesn’t hurt. It should hurt, but it...it doesn’t.”

Fiddleford’s hand started to shake in Stanford’s hold. When Ford looked up, Fiddleford just looked downright  _ scared _ . His terrified gaze was transfixed on his own hand.

“It doesn’t--why d-doesn’t it--Stanford-- _ Stanford _ \--” His voice cracked. Shit he was  _ crying _ . Ford internally panicked, unused to seeing his friend in such a state.

“Shh, shh,” He did the most comforting thing he could think of to do--he pulled Fiddleford into his arms again. Fiddleford immediately responded this time; his hands gripped into the fabric of Ford’s shirt and he began to sob into his shoulder. “Aw,  _ jeez _ , Fidds, it’s--you should--shh, shh, shh…”

They stayed like that for a while, Fiddleford crying and Stanford trying to soothe him. He began to rub Fiddleford’s back awkwardly. Only when the man began to hiccup did Stanford pulled away.

“Hey, hey,” He cooed like he did the first time he had to comfort his friend, cupping Fiddleford’s face to keep the man looking at him. “I know you’re scared. This is scary, I get it. But we can’t just keep panicking because then we’ll get nothing done. We need to be scientists, Fidds. We need to approach this calmly, okay? We have to take this in stride in order to fix it. I promised I was going to change you back, didn’t I?”

After a few hiccups (and a rather disgusting sniff, really, the man looked absolutely terrible when he cried; his eyes were red and his skin was all blotchy and his face was all scrunched up), Fiddleford gave him a shaky nod. Stanford smiled encouragingly. He fought the temptation to gently wipe some of Fiddleford’s tears away with his thumbs.

“I’m going to keep that promise, Fiddleford. So repeat after me, alright? This is temporary. Go on, say it.”

“This--this is--this s’temp’rary…” He whimpered. 

“I’m going to fix this.” Ford said.

“Y-you’re goin’ to f-fix this.” Fiddleford repeated. Oh, woops. Stanford hadn’t meant for Fiddleford to repeat that...but since the mechanic was being so receptive…

“You’re a crazy old hillbilly.” He suggested, mischievously.

“I’m a crazy o-- _ hey _ !” Fiddleford scowled, pulling completely away from Ford. Stanford laughed even as Fiddleford continued to glare (and sniff), practically doubling over. Eventually Fiddleford loosened up a little, giving him a small smile. It wasn’t much, but Ford would take any smile over Fiddleford’s tears. He straightened and, before Fiddleford could pull away further he engulfed the man in another hug.

“You just have to look on the bright side, Fidds,” He told him, “It’s not always easy to see, but it’s always there.”

Fiddleford giggled, breath warm in Ford’s ear. 

“Now isn’t that what  _ I _ told  _ you _ sophomore year when you thought you were gonna flunk Linear Algebra?”

“...Maybe.” Yes. Yes it was. “But it still applies.”

“Yes, I suppose it does.” Fiddleford sighed, arms ever so gently looping around Stanford’s waist to return the hug. Again, they stayed like that, sinking into the warmth of it, and confessing was right on the edge of Stanford’s tongue,  _ goddammit just do it just say it just tell him tell him tell-- _

“Ah, Stanford?” Fiddleford chuckled awkwardly. “Not that I don't mind, but are you gonna hug me like this all night? We’ve still got a bit of a mess to clean up.”

_ \--okay bad idea nope nope nope _ .

Stanford didn't let go of Fiddleford, however. The blonde was stressed and this time he would be  _ adamant _ that Fiddleford relax.

“Yes,  _ I’ve _ got a mess to clean up.  _ You _ ,” Stanford scooped Fiddleford up and over his shoulder--Fiddleford might have been taller, but Stanford had always been the stronger of the two--and carried him out to the living room, “are going to take it easy.”

“Wha--” Fiddleford squawked, completely disoriented and indignant, “Stanford Filbrick Pines you put me down this instant!”

“Yes, sir!” Stanford cheerily dumped the man onto the couch (earning another indignant squawk). When Fiddleford tried to stand up he pressed the man back by his shoulders.

“Stanford--”

“ _ Fiddleford _ .” Ford interrupted. “I am well-rested and fine. You are very  _ very  _ stressed. So  _ I  _ will clean up the mess in the kitchen, while  _ you _ sit back,  _ relax _ , and watch TV.”

“But what about din--” Fiddleford tried to protest; Ford wouldn't have a word of it.

“ _ I _ can make myself a sandwich. I understand that you’re trying to ‘make it up to me’. But you did the laundry. You finished cleaning the house. You made me rest. You’ve done more than enough. I swear that Southern hospitality of yours is going to drive you into the ground one day buddy.” He smiled, ruffling Fiddleford’s hair a little. Fiddleford grumbled and crossed his arms, but by the way he relaxed against the couch it looked like he wasn't going to protest anymore.

As soon as Ford let go of him though:

“Excuse me but I'm still covered in--”

“You can clean up after you’ve relaxed for a bit. Sit.  _ Rest _ . Doctor’s orders.” Stanford winked as he turned back towards the kitchen.

“You’re not that kind of doctor.” Fiddleford griped.

“Yet.” Stanford added with a cheeky grin, to Fiddleford’s exasperated growl. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Seriously, watch some TV.”

He didn't see the man’s reaction, but he heard him sigh. And as he stepped into the kitchen, he did indeed hear the TV turn on. At least Fiddleford was listening to him finally.

Really, it concerned him how scattered his friend had become in such a short time. Usually Fiddleford met things head on, took things in his stride and, in his terms, “kept on truckin’”. The man took a golf club to a Gremloblin  _ while under its effects _ for Pete’s sake! Maybe he wasn’t quite as physically strong as Stanford, but the man had just as much if not  _ more _ chutzpah (“hillbilly aggression”, some had called it in college, even though Fiddleford  _ hated _ the term and purposely tried to suppress his accent to avoid it). But in the space of a day that stubborn southern Fiddleford appeared to have  _ vanished _ . Stanford had never seen him this timid or withdrawn. Then again, the gentle man didn’t usually break almost everything he touched. But once he got used to his newfound strength that shouldn’t be a problem anymore. 

Stanford had a feeling it had something to do with whatever Fiddleford had gone through. The transformation process. Based on what Fiddleford had told him it had hurt, and hurt a lot. Stanford couldn’t begin to fathom the agony the mechanic had endured; again he felt guilty for dragging Fiddleford into dangerous situations that resulted in things like this. 

As he finished mopping up the rest of the soup and bowl pieces, he heard the twang of banjo strings and smiled. If Fiddleford hadn’t gone to his fallback comfort Ford really would have been worried. But after only a minute or so of mindless strumming he heard a sharp _snap_ __ of a string snapping. It was followed by several curses and the clunk of wood (from Fiddleford tossing his banjo away) and Ford’s smile became a frown. Fiddleford couldn’t even find comfort in that? Ford took out sandwich ingredients and sighed. He really needed to find a cure for Fiddleford’s vampirism as soon as possible. It hurt to see his friend so troubled.

Yet, in the meantime Ford had to address Fiddleford’s needs  _ now _ . If he was hungry (and he was, judging by his stomach rumbling almost constantly at this point), then it stood to reason that Fiddleford was hungry as well. Stanford was absolutely willing to let Fiddleford drink from him if that’s what it took to keep the mechanic healthy--if it was anything like the first time (minus the strangling and animalistic aggressiveness, which Stanford, oddly, still wasn’t sure if he minded or not) it wouldn’t be any worse than donating blood--but he had a feeling that Fiddleford would be vehemently against it. As Stanford stared down at his near-completed sandwich, he wondered if Fiddleford could still at the very least eat regular food. That would save a lot of trouble,but Ford had trouble believing it was anything more than wishful thinking.

So, mess cleaned and sandwich made, Stanford took a deep breath before going back to the living room, preparing for what might be a daunting task (for all it was one Stanford never in his life expected to undertake): convincing Fiddleford to drink his blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens!...not really, but I wonder what Fiddleford was up to...  
> poor guy's going through a lot of mood swings, huh


	5. Chapter 5

Fiddleford was nestled in the corner of the couch and knees drawn to his chest when Ford walked in. He was in nothing more than his boxers, and a blanket wrapped around his shoulders; his soup-soaked clothes were in a heap on the floor. Stanford tried to ignore the fact that his best friend ( _just a friend just a friend just a friend_ ) was almost naked in front of him ( _it’s not like you haven’t seen the man in his boxers before--in_ less _before--what’s gotten into you get your mind out of the goddamn gutter--man, imagine if he wore briefs…--OUT. OF. THE GUTTER._ ).

Fiddleford was staring emptily at the TV screen. Ford had a feeling it was because the mechanic was deep in thought rather than deep into whatever he was watching. Which appeared to be the local news channel. Ford sat cross legged on the couch next to the blonde before speaking.

“Feeling any better?” He asked quietly. Fiddleford hardly moved at all.

“I guess.” Fiddleford mumbled. He shot an empty look at Ford. “I broke a string on my banjo.”

“I...I heard.” Stanford nodded, shifting a little. Fiddleford only sighed and curled in closer on himself.

“Anything interesting on the news?” Stanford tried next. He took a bite out of his sandwich.

“Not really.” Fiddleford said. “M’just watchin’ for the weather report.”

“Ah. Alright.”

God how was this even _worse_? He’d rather have Fiddleford an emotional wreck than just...whatever this was. Maybe sending the man to “relax” wasn’t the best idea. But he couldn’t just let Fiddleford panic endlessly now could he? No, at least Fiddleford was calm now.

“Fiddleford--”

“I’ve been thinking.” Fiddleford said suddenly, almost making Ford jump with surprise. But he took it in stride, and tried to use it to break the ice a little.

“Really? It’s a miracle!” He cracked a smile, but was met with rolling eyes and an irritated snort (which he still counted as progress).

“I’ve been _thinking_ ,” Fiddleford repeated with emphasis, “about how this all might have happened...and I believe I...may have an idea.”

Stanford immediately perked up at that.

“Really? What?” He pressed eagerly. Fiddleford turned so he was facing him.

“...Remember last week, when we went hiking and found that strange cave system? The one beneath the mountain? And something in there broke our flashlights and those crazy giant bats attacked us and chased us out? We both got bit.”

Fiddleford twisted around and let the blanket fall down past his shoulders, showing off the bite wound on the back of his right shoulder. Two deep holes made by incisors, then several smaller ones from where the smaller teeth still cut skin, in two crescent moon shapes. Stanford had passed over it delicately when he had bathed Fiddleford to avoid agitating it. It was far more healed than it should be, but Stanford had a feeling it was a vampire thing.

“Right! So you think whatever bit you infected you…” Stanford paused, “I never even considered it...mostly because _I_ was bit too.”

He shoved the last of the half-sandwich into his mouth and lifted his shirt high, showing off his own bite. It was actually still bandaged, a white patch of gauze right underneath his left rib cage. Underneath the gauze his bite was nearly identical.

“And I haven't gone through anything that you have.” He continued once he swallowed. Fiddleford didn't respond right away: he was absolutely transfixed on the bite wound once Stanford revealed it.

“I...I know,” he said, gaze not once moving, “But...but it’s--it’s the only po--uh--possible cause I can think of. We...we haven't done anything really--really advent’rous since...and, ah, I’ve been sick the past three days. Nothin’...” He swallowed audibly, shifting where he sat, “N-nothing else fits…”

It took Stanford a moment to realize that Fiddleford could probably smell the blood from the wound, and that it was distracting him. He hurriedly tugged his shirt back down, and Fiddleford jolted like a live wire. He quickly shifted so he was facing the TV again and didn't make eye contact.

“I suppose you're right. It _does_ fit. But why did it take a week for you to change? And why haven't _I_ changed? And did your flu have anything to do with it? I should examine our bites again. And I'm probably going to need blood samples.” Ford speculated. He tried to meet Fiddleford’s eyes.

“Speaking of blood…” He said slowly. “How you doin’ in that department, buddy?”

Fiddleford stiffened, and avoided looking in Stanford’s direction at all.

“M’fine. There’s a blizzard coming.” He said. “It’s already snowing.”

Stanford glanced out the towards the front door. He couldn’t see anything through the little glass window.

“You--you can _tell_ that it’s snowing?” He gasped. He never had any idea vampires could--

Fiddleford shot him a withering look and jerked his chin in the direction of the TV. It was currently the local weather report. Which was reporting that a blizzard was well on its way into the area. Stanford hoped his mortification wasn’t visibly showing.

“Oh. Right.” After a nervous chuckle, he frowned at the realization. This house was heated by a furnace, which ran on wood. A blizzard up here could mean not even going outside, which meant in order to keep the house warm for its duration firewood needed to be brought inside. “I need to bring in more wood from the pile if there really is a blizzard coming.”

He started on the other half of his sandwich.

“I’ll go out once I finish this.” He gestured to the sandwich. And promptly remembered the question Fiddleford had deflected.

“Heyyyyy,” He grinned knowingly. “Nice try, McGucket. You can’t pull one over me that easily.”

Fiddleford only shrank further away from him. At this point he was going to fall off the couch if he kept doing that. Ford frowned again.

“Come on, buddy. Last time you drank--” Fiddleford visibly flinched at that “--was over eight hours ago now. You’ve _got_ to be hungry. Or thirsty. I’m not sure which is more fitting.”

When Fiddleford didn’t respond, Stanford glanced down at what was left of his sandwich. Wishful thinking it may be, it was worth a try.

“Do you know if you can still eat regular food?” He asked. “You can have the rest of my sandwich, or I can make you--”

“No.” Fiddleford said stiffly. “Can’t. Tried while you were asleep. Stayed down for about two seconds.”

“Okay,” Ford nodded, “So you _need_ blood. Fiddleford--”

“No.” Fiddleford said flat out. He didn’t even let Ford finish!

“Fiddleford, I know it’s not--”

“ _No_.”

“Fidds--”

“ _Dammit_ Ford, I said _no_!” Fiddleford snapped, whirling on him. His teeth were bared in a snarl, but he remained curled up, nigh on defensively. Ford sighed, trying to remain calm.

“Fiddleford, you can’t deny what your body needs--”

“I can deny all I want!” Fiddleford retorted. “I’m great at denyin’! Ya shoulda seen me the day my ma caught me n’ my sis with the pig in the house!”

“Fiddleford, I’m not just going to let you starve!” Stanford protested.

“And I’m not going to drink your blood, Stanford!” Fiddleford fired back. Ford tried not to tear at his own hair in frustration. He didn’t, but he did growl through his teeth.

“ _Fiddleford_ , just _what_ do you think this will accomplish?”

“I ain’t looking to accomplish nothin’.” Fiddleford huffed. “I’m just...I refuse to hurt you, Ford.”

Stanford scoffed.

“We’ve already gone over this, Fidds. You _didn’t_ hurt me! I am _not_ hurt! As long as we’re careful, no harm will come of it.”

“No _ha_ \--Ford, I can still see the bruises on your neck, the ones _I_ made. Harm has _already_ come of this. I won’t do more.” Fiddleford argued.

“W--well, that’s what happened when we _weren’t_ careful! We just have to make sure it’s regularly and in a calm environment so your predatory instincts don’t take over and you stay in control--”

“That’s the _thing_ , Ford,” Fiddleford hissed, “I _had_ control. I was never _not_ in control. As soon as your blood--as soon as I--I didn’t give a damn about what I did to you. And I...I knew it. And I didn’t care. I saw I was hurting you, I _knew_ I was hurting you; I saw you in pain, struggling, trying to fight me off...and I didn’t care.”

The look he gave Stanford was positively _tortured_.

“Stanford, you--I--you’re my best friend...and I could have killed you in that moment, and I wouldn’t have batted an eye.”

“Okay, if that’s what really happened, the important part is you snapped out of it--”

“And you should count yourself _lucky_ that I did! Stanford, let’s say we...did this, in a calm environment. We don’t know enough...I could still...become like that again. And I can’t do that again. I can’t feel like that again.” Fiddleford sighed. Suddenly he closed back up again and glared at Ford over knobby knees. “I _won’t_.”

“Fiddleford, we won’t know unless we try.” Ford pleaded. Fiddleford shook his head with stone cold conviction, and it angered Stanford down to his core. _Now_ , of all times, the stubborn southern Fiddleford had to come back? Stanford was so sick of this!

“What? So your solution is to _starve_ to fucking _death_?” He cried, anger propelling him to his feet. Fiddleford glared up at him.

“If it means not hurting you, then so be it.” He said. Stanford wanted to _scream_.

“You have a _son_ , you moron! You’re just going to up and die, _slowly,_ and you think that’s the best way to raise him? Why even _do_ this, Fiddleford? You have people who care about you! People who are willing to _help_ with your newfound _problem_ . Namely _me_ !” He shouted, hands balled into fists. “Why won’t you just let me _help_ you!?”

Fiddleford had frozen at the first words that left Stanford’s mouth, but now he finally unfurled from the couch. The gleam in his eye was pure, unadulterated _rage_. Stanford had crossed a line by bringing up Tate. He certainly regretted it now. Fiddleford stood up to his full height, forcing Stanford to look up to meet his gaze. And it was hard to keep that gaze, because honestly? The look in the man’s eyes was so dangerous it made Ford want to go running for the hills. Not that he did. He had said it twice now, and he’d say it a third time and still believe it: Fiddleford wouldn’t ever hurt him. Not intentionally. His heartbeat had picked up the pace under Fiddleford’s approach however.

“Don’t you _dare_ presume to know more about my boy than I do, Stanford Pines. Don’t you _ever_ .” The mechanic snarled. “And you _better fuckin’ believe_ that for _every_ decision I have made since the day he was born I have thought about the effects it would have on him.”

“And w-what are y-your th-thoughts on the effects of this?” Stanford barely had the strength to stammer back. He was still angry, but his fire was tamped by intimidation. Fiddleford didn’t even hesitate.

“I would rather die than put Tate in harm’s way.”

“I understand that,” Stanford conceded, trying to stay calm. “And it is also my belief that, for the time being, until I find a cure for your condition Tate shouldn’t be up to visit.”

That wasn’t fun news for either of them to hear. Fiddleford adored his son, and lived for the times he was here; and Stanford himself cared for the boy. Furthermore, Tate was supposed to come up for Thanksgiving next week. Stanford knew from his father that Tate was just as excited to come to Gravity Falls as Fiddleford was. The boy would be devastated to hear that he couldn’t. But Stanford agreed with Fiddleford on this front: keeping Tate safe was a priority.

Fiddleford sighed, and with that sigh the rage in him seemed to cool.

“I’m beginning to believe you won’t be able to find a cure for this, Ford.” He said forlornly. Stanford tried not to take offense.

“Wha--it hasn’t been twenty-four hours and you’re already doubting me?”

“Stanford, in all your time here, in all _our_ time here, we’ve never come across something like this. And let’s face it: you’re not a biologist, Stanford. Not a single one of your doctorates is in biology, you’ve never studied DNA, and--and that’s _if_ the solution to this is _in_ my DNA. There could be some magical potion or some cockamamy concoction that we don’t know about. This might be something I can’t come back from.”

“So your solution is to just roll over and _die_ ?” Stanford snapped, anger quickly rising again. “Not even _try_ to fix it?”

“No, Stanford, that’s not what I’m trying to say,” Fiddleford said, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration, other hand tightening its grip in the blanket around his shoulders, “What I’m saying is...no matter what, I won’t hurt you. I won’t hurt anyone. Even if that means dying, in the end.”

“My _God_ , Fiddleford,” Stanford cried, “When I said your Southern hospitality was going to drive you into the ground, I didn’t mean it _literally_ ! How many times do I need to say it, _you’re not hurting me_ ! I--just--oh my god _why_ can’t you get it through your head that I’m trying to help!”

“You may not see it as hurting you, but I do,” Fiddleford replied. “And _yes_ , it’s gotten through my head that you want to help. I’m trying to get it through _your_ head that I don’t want it.”

It was like a breaker flipping in Ford’s brain; or maybe, more like a dam breaking. Yes, because uncontrolled, desperate, _frustrated_ rage was flooding through him. Those last words were the final hairline fractures that broke the dam.

“ _Fine_!” He yelled, shoving the mechanic away from him. Fiddleford gasped--with surprise, but no pain--and, thrown off-balance, toppled back onto the couch. He wasn’t hurt, so Stanford didn’t give a damn.

“You want to fucking _starve_ for no _fucking_ reason go right ahead! I won’t fucking stop you! But damn you to _hell_ if you think I’m going to watch you waste away! And damn you to _hell_ if you think I’m going to stop trying to help you!” He hated it, dammit he hated it, but he could feel his eyes start to burn. He _hated_ the fact that he cried whenever he got too angry, too out of control. And he _hated_ the fact that he was in this state at all.

“Stan--”

“ _No.”_ Ford snarled. “I am _sick of this_ , I am _sick_ of _fighting_ . _Fuck_ this. I’m going out to get more firewood for the blizzard. _Gey gezunterheyt._ ”

And with that, he whirled on his heel and stormed out of the living room. His coat and boots were likely in the laundry room--he needed to go there anyway, since there was a door to the back porch in there, and a little ways out from the back porch was the woodpile. He slammed the laundry room door behind him. It didn’t take him long to get his boots on, and he pulled his coat out of the dryer. That was a small comfort: it was still rather warm from the dryer, and it would keep him a little bit warmer while he was outside. As he donned it a tentative knock came from the other side of the door.

“Ford, don’t be like this--”

“ _Don’t talk to me_ .” Ford spat back. “Go back to slowly _dying_ , since that’s all you want to do!”

He grabbed his hat and gloves and left the house before he gave himself the chance to hear whatever bullshit Fiddleford tried to respond with.

 _Why does he have to be so fucking stubborn_ , he thought bitterly as he trudged through the already accumulating snow, tugging on his hat and gloves. The blizzard being on its way was an understatement: it was already _here_ . The wind whipped snow into his eyes, and it wasn’t long before his own tears felt hot on his cheeks. _Why can’t he just deal with it? Adapt?_

He yanked the tarp off of the woodpile and laid it out on the snow: if he dumped all the wood they needed onto it, he could drag it back to the house in one trip. Sure, leaving the rest of the wood uncovered could dampen and ruin it, but it wouldn’t be for too long. He started tossing logs onto the tarp, rather aggressively. He was still seething.

“When I get back inside,” Ford growled under his breath, “I’m going to knock some sense into that damn sliver of osmium. Thinks he can get away with starving on my watch, yeah well, _no dice_ . I don’t care if I have to siphon my blood into a fucking blood bag for him to drink out of. He’s so damn concerned about ‘hurting me’--bupkes! Have I ever been a wimp when I had to donate or have blood drawn? Fucking no! Vas tut er trakhtn ikh bin? Etlekhe min fun shmendrick? Er kenen gai kakhen afenyam far az! If we weren’t about to be snowed in by a blizzard I’d offer to--I don’t know, pull some strings at a blood bank? Rob the place? I don’t know! Just--what’s the point? If I were in his position he’d do the exact same thing! I’d probably have my own hesitations, but not to the point where I’d rather _die_.”

“God, dem iz fercockt.” He grunted as he began to drag the tarp--piled with wood--towards the porch. More aptly, the porch light; the snow was falling so thickly now he could hardly see the porch itself from here.

And then he couldn’t even see that when something blocked its light. Stanford looked up and scowled. Fiddleford was standing on the porch in his bare feet, blanket somehow forgotten and leaving the man in just his boxers. In Oregon. In November. In the middle of a blizzard. Stanford didn’t let his anger cloud his concern, but he did let it bitter his tone.

“Get back inside, Fidds,” He barked, “You’ll freeze out here.”

“I don’t feel it, Ford.” Fiddleford called back, stepping out into the snow. “I don’t feel the cold at all.”

Stanford elected not to respond, only continuing to drag the wood to the house. He didn’t even spare the mechanic a glance as he dragged the wood up the steps and onto the porch. Fiddleford followed him, and talked even though Ford refused to face him.

“Stanford, look, I’m sorry,” He began. For a split second as Ford stacked the wood in the corner he thought the man was willing to take care of himself properly. He even cracked a little smile, not that Fiddleford could see it, but then: “but I don’t think you’re understanding this.”

The smile dropped back to a scowl.

“Just, try to see it from my perspective,” Fiddleford continued. “From the moment I woke up--from the moment I _bled_ all my _blood_ out, I’ve been...different. _Wrong_ . I can feel it, inside: _wrong._ And I can see it whenever I look in a mirror--and see nothing! _Wrong_.”

Stanford, finished stacking the wood and straightened. He still refused to respond to Fiddleford, but he _was_ listening. Silently he unfurled the tarps at the edge of the porch awning that would protect the porch from the snow (and by extension, protect the firewood) as Fiddleford continued.

“I don’t feel...right in my own skin anymore, Ford. I feel like someone’s poured my mind into some new body that ain’t mine. I can’t even check to see if I even _look_ like me anymore! I just--I feel like one big steamin’ pile of _wrong_.”

“So?” Stanford finally said, picking up the woodpile tarp. “What happened to the Fiddleford I knew, huh? It’s hardly been twelve hours and you’ve completely changed. In _here_ .” He tapped his temple. “Because the Fiddleford I knew? He wouldn’t be rolling over like this. He would be taking this in his stride. He would say we just have to ‘keep on truckin’’. He’d face the problem head on and--and--take it down with a _golf club_ if need be! What happened to that?”

Bitterly he shoved past Fiddleford and back out to the woodpile. Fiddleford continued to follow him. This time, there was more anger in the mechanic’s voice.

“Stanford Pines, you told me yourself that I went through a traumatic experience. Did ya think I wouldn’t be changed on the other side of it? I _want_ to face this head on. I _want_ to go back to normal.”

Stanford scoffed under his breath as he threw the tarp back over the woodpile and secured it down.

“But want all I may, I ain’t going back to normal right now. So all I’m left with is--just--just this feeling that I’m a _monster_ now.” Fiddleford stopped several feet away.

Stanford froze. _Monster?_

“I’m crazy strong--but I break everything I touch. I _thirst_ for _blood_ . I’m the very definition of _monster_ and I am scared to death that it is something inside of me that could take over and make me some--some wild animal, that’ll hurt everyone I care about.”

Ford rose to his feet, staring at the other man. _That’s_ what Fiddleford thought? _That’s_ what was making him avoid Stanford, avoid drinking, avoid everything? The concept hurt as much as it angered him.

“Fiddleford, how could you say that?” He said. “How could you even think that about yourself?”

“Because I am, Ford!” Fiddleford cried, wind and snow whipping through his hair. “I am standing here in a blizzard with barely any clothes on, tryin’ to resist every instinct that is tellin’ me to hunt you down! How does that _not_ scream monster to ya?”

“Because you’re not a monster, Fidds.” Ford said, softer this time. He came forward. “Fiddleford Hadron McGucket, you are not, and will not ever be a monster.”

Fiddleford’s eyes went wide, like he couldn’t believe the words coming out of Ford’s mouth. He tried to appear confident, but Ford could see that he had hunched down.

“You won’t be sayin’ that when I hurt you again.” The blonde tried to snap. It sounded unsure.

“I will keep saying it even when I’m nothing but a ghost.” Ford said without hesitation. “I will say it even if you’re the one who made me a ghost.”

Fiddleford was absolutely speechless. Ford was directly in front of him now.

“Fiddleford, I have known you for approximately eight years now. In those eight years, you have been nothing but a gentle, kind, and loving man. You have never harmed another soul without good reason. Hell, your heart was pure enough to get us a unicorn’s hair. I don’t think there’s anything in this universe that could ever corrupt that.” The amount of conviction in Ford’s voice surprised even himself. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t sincere in his words.

“How can you say that?” Fiddleford breathed. Stanford smiled.

“Because I--” He immediately choked on his words, seized by a sudden panic. Could he really admit this? What happened to being just friends? Maybe he, ah, could twist it, so it sounded platonic.

Fiddleford didn’t react to his sudden silence; he seemed to be patiently waiting for him to continue. His eyes were even narrowed in his focus.

“Because I--” Ford repeated dumbly, “I--I--”

“Ford hush.” The mechanic suddenly said, a hand on Ford’s shoulder angling him out of the way. Ford’s panic was superseded by confusion.

“What? What do you m--” He was stopped short by a hand clamping down over his mouth, grip almost tight enough to hurt.

“ _I said hush_.” Fiddleford hissed, staring out into the woods. That narrow-eyed focus hadn’t been on him, it had been over his shoulder, at something he couldn’t see.

“There’s something...there’s--” The mechanic cut off, suddenly blushing furiously. He shot Stanford a suspicious look. “Wha--what’re ya--stop that!”

“What? Stop what?” Stanford tried to say. But Fiddleford’s hand kept him completely muffled.  He was extremely put off by the other’s man sudden and odd behavior.

“Ya--yer heart,” Fiddleford stammered. “It just st-st-started beatin’ real--really fast--it’s distractin’! Slow it down.”

Ford hoped the look he gave the other man properly conveyed the phrase “How in the _hell_ am I supposed to do that?”, not that it mattered. Fiddleford was already focused back on the woods.

“Somethin’s out there.” He mumbled, stepping forward. He kept twitching his head, pointing one ear and then the other towards the forest. After a moment he took another step forward and let go of Stanford. When he tried to step forward to be even with Fiddleford, the other man lashed a hand out to warn him back.

“Don’t.” Fiddleford whispered. “It’s dangerous. I can feel it.”

“What is it?” Stanford whispered back.

“Don’t know. Stay back.” Was the reply.

They stood in silence and trepidation, Fiddleford stepping forward every few seconds, Stanford staying a few steps back but following nonetheless. Stanford strained to see into the dark, but whatever it was, his eyes were far too weak to see it. Closer and closer they edged to the border between clear ground and dark forest. When they were just at the edge, Fiddleford let out an animal hiss. Then he yelled out.

“Sho--” He cut off just as soon as he started. He stepped back, straightening as he did so. Again he did that head twitching thing, until:

“It’s gone.”

“Gone?” Stanford echoed, glancing between his friend and the woods.

“Yeah. It just--it just up and vanished. Somethin’ was out there, I felt it…” Fiddleford turned back to Ford, frowning, “But then it just...disappeared. Didn’t even fade away, like someone leavin’, it just--” He snapped his fingers “--gone.”

“Well, whatever it was, you said it was dangerous. I’m inclined to believe you, so I’m glad it’s gone.” Ford replied. He was still eyeing the forest warily. “We should get back inside.”

He started walking backwards towards the house, not wanting to take his eyes off of the trees, which seemed far more ominous in the snowy darkness than they usually were. But that decision was his downfall-- _literally_.

His feet skidded in snow and he toppled backwards, slamming onto his back. His head snapped backwards and he felt his teeth cut _deep_ into his tongue. Pain flooded his mouth and his eyes immediately watered. He curled in on himself, eyes squeezing shut and hands covering his mouth as he cried out in pain. Cold snow was already soaking into his clothes, biting cold on his skin and burning, painful heat in his mouth as it filled with blood.

“Stanford! Stanford, oh my god, are you alright!?” Fiddleford cried, on his knees and by his side in the blink of an eye. One hand was on his shoulder, helping him sit upright, and the other was warm, far too warm, on his cheek. Stanford blinked his eyes open.

Fiddleford had initially cried out with concern, but now the man was wide-eyed, with razor sharp focus on Stanford’s mouth, covered as it was. His pupils were incredibly dilated, and in the porch light his corneas reflected bright like an animal’s. His breathing was labored; the grip on his shoulder tightened and loosened repeatedly; and it was panic in the man’s features, but also, undeniably, hunger.

Stanford slowly dropped his hands from his mouth. Well, this...wasn’t exactly the best way to win an argument, but...he was bleeding, and Fiddleford was hungry. Opportunity knocks?

“F-fiddth…” His words were slurred from the blood in his mouth and stuttered from the cold, “Ith ok-kay.”

The slight shake of Fiddleford’s head was almost imperceptible, but there. The man was slowly inching closer, but he seemed to be fighting his own instincts. He licked his lips, probably out of instinct, but suddenly it was all Ford could focus on. Oh, that’s right: the easiest way to... _feed_...would be to…

Stanford’s whole face was probably red at this point. Fiddleford suddenly shuddered, a quiet (but definitely audible) moan forcing its way past gritted teeth.

“Y-yer heartbeat s-sped up again,” The man panted, licking his lips again, “Y-yer s-scared...I c-can’t--I won’t--”

“Not thcared.” Ford breathed, throwing all caution to the wind, internally yelling “BAREN ES”, cupping Fiddleford’s face in his hands, and crashing their lips together.

It...wasn’t exactly ideal. Fiddleford practically spasmed under his hold, hands fisting into Ford’s coat as if to shove him away (but he...didn’t). And the kiss was open mouthed, Stanford pressing his tongue past Fiddleford’s lips and sweeping around the other man’s canines. Definitely far dirtier than any first kiss should be. Definitely not ideal.

But then Fiddleford _reciprocated._ Suddenly the kiss was even more open, more tongue-filled. Fiddleford moaned and swallowed, and _god_ he was drinking Stanford’s blood and the air out of his lungs too but it felt _amazing_. Every moan sent shivers down his spine and between his legs and eventually he couldn’t help his own little whimper of arousal.

Unfortunately _that’s_ when Fiddleford shoved him away, breaking the kiss roughly. Ford whined (rather pathetically, how embarrassing) at the loss of contact. He could feel blood trailing down his chin now ( _damn tongues bleed a lot_ ), not that he really cared. One look at Fiddleford’s shell-shocked face and he felt guilt replace all arousal because, well, he kind of just forced himself on Fiddleford. He just kissed his best friend, who had never _ever_ shown a romantic interest in him, on the lips, with tongue, _without consent_.

 _Oh god I fucked up_.

“F-fidds--I--oh my god I’m s-so--”

“It wasn’t a dream.” Fiddleford murmured. Ford realized the mechanic hadn’t actually let go of him.

“You really said those things, didn’t you?” Fiddleford said. “I was asleep, I thought it was a dream, but you really said all those things you felt...that was real, it wasn’t a dream. Oh my god…”

Suddenly it hit Stanford like a freight train, what Fiddleford was saying. Guilt became pure embarrassment, and he tried to scramble backwards on palms on heels away from Fiddleford before the Fates tortured him _more_.

“Oy _gavalt_ you--but you were asleep! You--you were unconscious in the bathtub! You were a _dead weight_ how could you have heard me--oh god, oh _no--_ this is so _embarrassing_ I--”

He was cut off by Fiddleford dragging him back up to eye-level. The man was...the man was _grinning_. Like he had just heard the best news in the world.

“Oh my god…” He repeated. Using Ford’s jacket lapels he tugged him into another kiss. One far less dirty and far more passionate.

 _Oh_.

If Stanford had to choose a word to describe the chaotic state that was his mind right then, he’d think the best word would have to be _glee_. And suddenly he was all too willing to let himself fall back into the snow, with Fiddleford on top of him and kissing the life out of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BOY WAS THAT INTENSE
> 
> Translations:
> 
> 1) "Go do your own thing."
> 
> 2) "Who does he think I am? Some kind of pipsqueak? He can go shit in the ocean for that!"
> 
> 3) "God, this is all fucked up."
> 
> 4) "FUCK IT"


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Explicit sexual content ahead.

To be honest, Stanford kind of lost track of how they got all the way up to his room. He remembered snow soaking into his skin from below, Fiddleford warming his skin from above. He remembered beginning to shiver nonetheless, and Fiddleford pulling away to murmur “inside”. He remembered scrambling for as much contact as possible even though they were trying to get his clothes off, throwing them all over the laundry room with little care as to where they fell. There was something between Fiddleford laughing as he tugged Ford’s hat off and the slam of his bedroom door being shut (with him against it), but it seemed inconsequential and fairly unmemorable compared to the way Fiddleford was pressing him back against the door with one hand resting on his hip and the other gripping his shirt sleeve, and the way Fiddleford was still kissing the breath out of him, and the way Fiddleford had a thigh between his legs and up against his growing arousal. Yeah. This was  _ far _ more memorable. And it didn’t involve stairs.

Somewhere along the line Stanford’s tongue stopped bleeding: from Fiddleford’s saliva, which was probably gross when thought about in depth but honestly the cool tingling feeling in his mouth sent shivers all through him, made him moan and his hips jerk. Fiddleford’s only response was to squeeze his hip hard enough to bruise. 

Fiddleford broke their kiss to trail his lips along Ford’s jaw, up and down to his neck, stopping just over his pulse. Ford did his best not to twitch at the ticklish feeling of Fiddleford’s breath. He sighed happily, content to let his hands rest at Fiddleford’s waist. Until he realized Fiddleford wasn’t moving anymore.

“Fidds…?” He murmured. Fiddleford jerked away from him; he didn’t let go, but he moved back, like he was trying to run away but couldn’t. When he met Ford’s questioning gaze, his eyes (what he could see of them at least--the room was quite dark) were filled with guilt and fear.

“Stop me.” It was a simple command, not forceful, just there. A faint hope, perhaps, that Ford would obey.

Ford shook his head. “No.”

“Push me away. Don’t let me do this.”

“Do it.” 

Fiddleford’s eyes shot down to Ford’s neck, and he let out a quiet, reluctant whine.

“M’sorry.”

“Don't be.”

For a moment the man hesitated, like he was going to resist nonetheless. That changed quickly: Fiddleford shoved Stanford back against the door, pinning him down, and buried his face in the man’s neck.

Stanford expected it to hurt--and it did, at first. He even winced a little bit, but it definitely didn’t hurt as much as the first time around. What he  _ didn’t  _ expect was Fiddleford to grind his hips forward into Stanford’s. The friction felt so damn good it had his knees shaking. The line between pleasure and pain blurred and all Ford could do was tangle his fingers in Fiddleford’s hair and moan.

“Fidds,  _ Fidds _ , ohhhhh god.” 

Fiddleford growled, one hand sliding down to Ford’s ass, pushing them even closer together. Ford only moaned louder.

It wasn’t long before there was that cool tingling feeling as his skin healed. The grind of their hips slowed and stopped completely--Ford whined at the loss. But Fiddleford was letting go of him, stepping  _ away _ from him. The mechanic was breathing heavily and sweating, and his pupils had practically eclipsed his irises--although that was more of a theoretical assumption because the room was pretty dark and Stanford couldn’t see very well.

“You alright?” Fiddleford panted, nervousness clear in his tone. Ford took a quick mental inventory of himself: sore neck, slight touch of dizziness that could be from blood loss or from all of his blood relocating to his dick. Or both. Either way, he was fine. So he elected to answer by lurching forward and pulling Fiddleford into a deep kiss. 

Fiddleford jumped a little, but quickly reciprocated. Again Ford found his fingers tangling in Fiddleford’s hair, and again Fiddleford pushed him back against the door. Suddenly he felt a tug on his chest and the popping of buttons: Fiddleford was dragging his hand through Ford’s shirt, undoing buttons--or simply tearing them off. The kiss broke as Fiddleford shoved his shirt down his shoulders.

“I liked this shirt.” Ford said, in a way that sounded like the shirt could have been made of gold and he wouldn’t have cared. He shrugged the rest of the shirt off, and in that moment the haze of lust momentarily dissipated. Self-consciousness replaced it: Ford knew he wasn’t exactly the most fit (or attractive, he wasn’t the one who inherited looks), but he hadn’t really cared about the bit of chub he had until right this moment. That is, until: 

“God you’re beautiful.”

“W-what?” Ford stammered. 

“W-well I mean,” Fiddleford started to fumble nervously. “Yer always b--I’ve--I’ve always thought you were, uh, when ya got und-dressed--or not! It’s n-n-not objectifying-ly! I like ya w-with a shirt and without a--a--oh criminy I just s-sound like a creep…”

“No, no!” Ford shook his head. He took Fiddleford’s hands in his own. “You’re not...do you really think I’m beautiful?”

He hated how needy that sounded, but it was out of his mouth before he could stop it. Fiddleford chuckled.

“Well, yeah.” Fiddleford must have noticed something in Ford’s expression, because he tilted his head. “Why would I not?”

“No, no reason, it’s just…” Ford swallowed, blushing with shame. “No one’s ever called me beautiful before.”

“What?” Fiddleford gasped. “Really?”

“Uh, no. Not even a ‘handsome’.” Ford admitted quietly. “‘Pretty little thing’ a few times. ‘Specimen’, mostly.”

Maybe that was a compliment to some people, but Ford let go of Fiddleford’s hand and wiggled his fingers to show what he meant. What they  _ really _ meant when they called him that. It’s not like he had been with many people in his life--hell, he could count them all on one hand--and hardly any of it meant anything (or felt like it meant anything, which was a problem in and of its own he always struggled with). But it hurt more than anything else to be treated as an ‘accomplishment’. A bragging right. ‘Guess what? I slept with a guy that had  _ six _ fingers on each hand!’. Even when it hadn’t been like that, the feeling was always there, in the back of his mind. That he was just a cool accessory. A trophy, even.

He was knocked out of his dreary reflections by Fiddleford weaving his fingers in between those of the hand he still held and seized Ford’s other hand, bringing it up to his cheek.

“I don’t think you’re a specimen. Not that kinda specimen, at least.” He said, smiling softly. He stepped up close to Ford. “I think you’re beautiful…”

His hands left Stanford’s, to trail up his chest instead. Stanford reflexively pressed into the warmth.

“I think you’re handsome…” Arms looped around Ford’s neck, and his arms looped around Fiddleford’s waist. He tried not to beam under the flattery, but it was hard not to.

“And amazing…” Fiddleford leaned forward, their chests flush against each other.

“And sexy…” The mechanic purred in his ear, and Ford felt something very eager pressing against his hip. “Ever got that one?”

“N-no,” Ford answered. “That one’s a first.”

“Well that’s a damn shame. But,” Fiddleford pulled away to look Stanford in the eye with a wry smile. “I can relate.”

“What? No one’s ever called you sexy?” Ford’s jaw dropped. The man had been  _ married _ , one would think that…

Fiddleford shrugged.

“Nah. Mostly because I’m--well, I’m not.”

“Yes you are!” Ford blurted. “You’re one of the sexiest men I’ve ever met!”

This was admittedly true. And admittedly  _ embarrassing _ to admit. But Fiddleford beamed, erasing all of Stanford’s mortification.

“You really think so?”

“Of course,” Stanford grinned, pushing off of the wall, pushing Fiddleford back. When Fiddleford was back a few steps, Stanford let his eyes rake up and down the mechanic’s body, to prove his point and because he hadn’t really had an opportunity to do so yet. The man may have hated the little pot-belly he could never get rid of, despite being practically rail-thin otherwise, or the fact that he wasn’t as ‘manly’ as he thought he should be, but Ford loved every inch of him. 

“There were a lot of thoughts in my head in that bathroom,” He admitted breathily. “I’m glad I didn’t say all of them aloud.”

Fiddleford raised an eyebrow at that.

“You sure know how to make a man curious, Stanford.”

“M-most of it was, ah, appropriate, I assure you.” Ford backtracked, and suddenly he could kind of understand where Fiddleford was coming from when he called himself a creep.  Arousal well and truly destroyed the filter between irrational thoughts and saying them aloud.

Fiddleford laughed and beckoned Stanford forward. Once Stanford was in reach, Fiddleford yanked him the rest of the way forward by his belt loops. Stanford yelped at the sudden contact. Fiddleford grinned down at him.

“S’that so?” He drawled. “‘Cause I wanted to hear what  _ wasn’t _ appropriate.”

“Oh,” Stanford swallowed, quickly tamping down his nervousness. “Well, like I said, most of it was appropriate...simple…”

Slowly he began to walk forward, guiding Fiddleford back towards the bed.

“Simple,” He repeated. “Like, what it would be like to hold your hand--in this way, not in a ‘we’re running for our lives and we’re trying to stay together’ way…”

He took Fiddleford’s hand; the mechanic giggled.

“What it would be like, to...to stroke your hair…”

Tentatively he reached up and ran his fingers through Fiddleford’s hair, right along the streak of light blond.

“What it...would be like, to--”

Fiddleford leaned down and kissed him before he could even say it. It was a quick kiss, and chaste. Fiddleford pulled away chuckling nervously.

“Sorry. Got excited.”

And suddenly Stanford wondered why he was ever nervous in the first place. This was  _ Fiddleford _ . Maybe this was their first time in a situation like this, and brought about by un-ideal circumstances, but Fiddleford was still his best friend of eight years. They  _ knew _ each other. Fiddleford was easily excited and Stanford knew that. Stanford was overly eager and Fiddleford knew that. They  _ loved _ each other. And they knew that.

Stanford grinned as he continued. 

“What it would be like to love you,  _ really  _ love you, every word, every inch…”

They were close enough now: with a light shove Fiddleford’s legs hit the bed and the man fell back with a gasp; he still had a hold on Stanford’s pants, tugging him down as well. Stanford quickly moved back though. He had a plan. Fiddleford followed him up curiously, leaning back on his palms. Stanford pressed kisses along the mechanic’s jaw, all the way back to his ear.

“What it would be like, to touch…” He whispered. His hands stroked down Fiddleford’s sides and landed at the waistband of his boxers. “Touch with my hands…”

As he peppered Fiddleford’s neck with kisses and love bites, he began to tug down the man’s boxers off. Fiddleford whimpered and lifted his hips, making Ford’s job easier. Slowly Ford sank to his knees, trailing kisses all the way down Fiddleford’s chest and sliding his boxers off completely. Fiddleford whimpered again. Stanford grinned once he was fully on his knees and eye-level with Fiddleford’s dick. It was fully erect, curving up towards the man’s belly, and possibly one of the longest Stanford had ever seen. He tried not to shiver with excitement. Just to tease, he met Fiddleford’s eyes and licked his lips. 

“Touch with my mouth…” He said huskily. He gently wrapped a hand around the base of Fiddleford’s dick and pressed a kiss to its head. Fiddleford slapped a hand over his mouth to suppress a moan and suddenly his other hand was tangling in Ford’s curly hair.

“Touch with my tongue…” Ford said, and licked the bead of pre-cum forming on the tip of Fiddleford’s cock.

“Ford,” Fiddleford whined, “Ya d-don’t have to, if ya don’t know what yer doin’--”

“What makes you think I don’t know what I’m doing?” Stanford pulled away, raising an eyebrow at his friend.

“J-just, I know it’s yer--yer first time n’ all--”

“What makes you think this is my first time?”

Fiddleford’s mouth snapped shut at that, eyes widening and Stanford  _ knew _ the man was blushing with embarrassment. He grinned.

“We’ve known each other for eight years, Fiddleford,” He chided teasingly. “I’m  _ disappointed _ .”

He accentuated with a hard stroke of Fiddleford’s dick, and the mechanic gasped and reflexively bucked into Stanford’s hand.

“F-fuck, okay,” Fiddleford moaned, “Ya know what yer d-doin’, alright.”

“Damn right I do.” Ford snickered. He licked up and down Fiddleford's shaft, and the fist in his hair tightened.

" _ Jesus _ , Stanford." Fiddleford gasped, hips twitching. Ford grinned, enjoying the power he had over the other’s pleasure.

"Taking the Lord's name in vain, eh?" He teased, even as he slowly pumped the man’s dick. "What a heathen."

He began to lavish Fiddleford's dick with kisses and kitten licks, and the mechanic groaned, his other hand clawing into Ford's shoulder.

"I'm a vampire," He panted, "I had a child out of wedlock, I'm divorced, an' I'm havin' sexual congress with another man, an'  _ that's _ what yer callin' me a heathen over?"

Ford would have laughed, but then he realized the depth to those words. Fiddleford was Christian; it was common knowledge that, in Christianity, homosexuality was deemed wrong. Stanford pulled away nervously.

"If you don't actually want to do this, we can stop, I know in the Church--"

"Ford from what I just listed I think it's obvious I don't give a damn what any church preaches." Fiddleford cut him off impatiently. "If I'm goin' ta hell I'm goin' ta hell, I couldn't care less. So fer the  _ love of God, don't stop. _ "

Stanford internally smacked himself for his doubt and threw on a confident grin.

"Oh, well, in that case," He said, before taking Fiddleford's cock whole into his mouth. Both of Fiddleford's hands tangled themselves in his hair as the mechanic bucked forward with a curse. Ford was happy to let him, although his hands slid gently up Fiddleford's thighs to seize his hips, just in case. His head bobbed up and down, meeting Fiddleford's thrusts. 

"Oh g-g-g--sweet c-corn-huskin' c-crows, Ford," Fiddleford groaned, hands scrabbling at Ford's shoulders now. "You n' that d-d-damn gag reflex, Christ."

By 'gag reflex', he meant of course the fact that Stanford didn't seem to have one. A fact that he was finding a new appreciation for. He'd never had reason to in the past: the last time he sucked a dick (which hadn't been in the most ideal or pleasant situation to begin with), it hadn't even come close to hitting the back of his throat. But this was different--and far more enjoyable. Every noise that Fiddleford made went straight to his own dick and made the friction in his jeans even more torturous. He tried to relieve himself by rubbing his thighs together, but the result just had him moaning desperately around the cock down his throat. It was hard to  _ breathe _ around it for pete's sake, it was so damn  _ long _ , but the lack of air seemed to turn him on even more.

" _ Shit _ ," Fiddleford cursed, nails digging hard into Ford's shoulder blades; he didn't even register the pain of it. He simply kept moaning as Fiddleford fucked his mouth. "You have--n-no idea what ya used to d-do to me. Mornin's when you were--w-were late to class, and you'd shove a whole--oh  _ god- _ -fuckin' banana down yer fuckin' throat on yer way out the door. W-wouldn't be able to--to think straight all day 'cause a you."

Stanford would have grinned if he could. Did he really have that effect on the mechanic that early on? If only he had known...

His hands slid backwards to Fiddleford's ass, and squeezed as he sucked. Fiddleford bent over him, scratching up and down Ford's back desperately.

"Ford!" He yelled. "D-d- _ ah!  _ F--ah--don't I'm gonna--"

Ford sucked again, and that was it. Fiddleford spasmed against him with a drawn out cry. Despite his lack of gag reflex Stanford still choked on the hot load filling his mouth. He pulled back a little, still determined to swallow as much as he could. Until Fiddleford pulled him off by his hair.

"Dammit, Stanford I'm sorry, I didn't..." Fiddleford trailed off. Stanford was grinning up at him. He was probably quite the mess, face red and drool and come dribbling down his chin and his hair in every direction and still hard as all hell and giving his lover (he never thought he'd love the word so much but he did) the most dopey, lovestruck smile possible.

"Ford, I..." Fiddleford sighed, smiling himself now, "oh just get up here already."

He tugged Ford up by his shoulders to his feet. Then he cupped his face.

"You're so beautiful." He whispered, before pulling him in for a kiss. Stanford eagerly reciprocated, heart fluttering under the compliment. Gently he slid a knee onto the bed, to balance himself and to be more even with Fiddleford. His hands fell to the mechanic's shoulders.

At first the kiss was gentle, and passionate, but it quickly became heated. Stanford had hardly touched himself at all and it was almost  _ painful _ . He had managed to situate himself somewhat across Fiddleford's thigh. Desperate for any sort of contact, he tentatively began to rock his hips against his lover's leg, moaning at the minimal relief it provided. 

It certainly didn't escape his lover's notice.

"Jesus, Ford," Fiddleford groaned between frantic kisses, "You really--r-really that desperate?"

Ford moved to suck marks into Fiddleford's neck (and to hide his guilty blush).

"It's--it's been a while," he huffed. He continued to grind his clothed length against the other man's thigh. The angle wasn't perfect, there was only just enough friction to drive him mad. Huffing soon turned to straight whining.

" _ Damn _ , Ford, you could come just by ruttin' against my leg, couldn't you?" Fiddleford's voice was low and taunting in his ear. Stanford felt his face grow even hotter. Fiddleford noticed.

"Oh you could, couldn't you? If I told you you couldn't do anything but, you'd listen, hm?"

Stanford moaned a faint "yes" into the crook of Fiddleford's neck. He felt the fingers of one hand gently stroke through his hair as the fingers of the other trailed up and down his chest teasingly. 

"And you'd drive yourself crazy. Just grind and grind until you were a panting sweaty mess, wouldn't you? You're that damn obedient, yeah?"

"Y-yes." Ford repeated, clinging to Fiddleford's shoulders and still grinding, aroused by his own fucking shame. Of all the things to turn him on...

"You'd rut until you were begging if I told you to, wouldn't you?" Fiddleford's fingers threaded through his chest hair and tugged,  _ hard _ .

"Yes! Fiddleford,  _ oh _ ," Ford cried desperately, "Fidds  _ please _ , I--"

He broke off with a gasp as Fiddleford yanked him back by his hair, forcing Ford to look him in the eye. Fiddleford was smirking, the smile that showed off that one canine and made him look absolutely dangerous.

"Beggin' as you rutted against my leg like a fuckin'  _ dog,  _ wouldn't you?" He growled, roughly palming Stanford's erection. His whole body spasmed at the touch.

" _ Fuck _ !" His voiced cracked. He  _ never _ figured Fiddleford for a dirty talker but  _ god _ if it wasn't the hottest thing Stanford had ever heard in his life. "Ga--yes! Yes!  _ Oh~ _ !"

He would have rutted against Fiddleford's palm if he had to, but it wasn't there anymore. He felt more than heard his fly being undone. He thought Fiddleford was going to touch him again, and Fiddleford did, but certainly not in the way he was expecting him to.

Suddenly Ford's world was spinning as he was turned and flipped in one fluid motion, face down on a pillow. Before he could even completely comprehend what had happened he felt his pants and underwear being yanked down and off his legs. A shiver of excitement ran through him as he realized what was happening. He had never been in this position before (he usually preferred to be face-to-face with the people he slept with), but damn if he wasn't ready for it. He even pulled his knees in and stuck his ass up. 

"Good thing I don't feel that cruelly inclined today, darlin'." Fiddleford purred. Ford gasped and moaned as the mechanic groped his ass hard enough to bruise. Fiddleford ground his hips against Ford's ass with a groan and Ford was surprised at the stiffness he felt. Fiddleford was already fully erect again? 

_ Vampire stamina? _ , his mind suggested,  _ how fortuitous. _

"Nnn--lord that feels fine," Fiddleford panted. "But it ain't no fun dry. Got any lube?"

"B-back of the top d-drawer, bedside table. G-God, hurry."

"Don't you w-- _ Shit _ !" Fiddleford cried suddenly, practically jumping off the bed.

"What?" Ford looked over his shoulder. Fiddleford was completely panicked.

"Stop--we gotta stop!" Fiddleford hurriedly switched on the lamp on the bedside table. Ford winced at the brightness of the light. He pushed himself up to his knees.

" _ What _ ?"

"You're hurt!" Fiddleford gestured to his back. Ford frowned. How was he hurt? He looked down his shoulder, trying to see his back. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the dark pink and red of agitated skin. Oh. Fiddleford must have scratched his back a little too hard on accident.

"W--I don't even feel it. Fidds, come on." Ford wriggled a little. His erection was still  _ throbbing _ .

"Oh, god damn, I tore you up somethin’ fierce." Fiddleford moaned guiltily. “I didn’t mean it, Ford--”

"It's okay. Fidds, we can do something about it later, please." Ford begged. " _ Please _ don't leave me hanging." 

Fiddleford stepped forward, eyes narrowed, like he was trying to gauge whether or not Ford was lying about his pain (sure, now that he was  _ thinking _ about it it stung, but he'd had  _ way _ worse, and either way, it felt like there wasn't enough blood left in his brain to process it). 

"Are you sure? ‘Cause I broke skin," The mechanic asked hesitantly. "I can go get the anti-septic--"

"Anti-septic later." Ford growled. He reached for Fiddleford's wrists and yanked the man into a bruising kiss. A hand found its way between the mechanic’s legs and roughly squeezed his cock. Fiddleford’s legs nearly gave out from under him as he groaned. “Fuck me now.”

Fiddleford glared, and he was still reluctant. But after a few focused glances at the scratches on Ford’s back he grinned.

“Someone’s bossy.” He raised his hands in surrender, before reaching for the bedside table drawer. “But I’ll oblige.”

“Good.” Stanford took his glasses off and set them on the table, before bending over on the bed again. His dick was pressed between his stomach and his thighs, and if he shifted at all it felt  _ amazing _ . He buried his face in the pillow to try and muffle the sounds he was making as he squirmed. That didn’t fly by Fiddleford though: fingers weaved through Ford’s hair and tugged, making him moan and forcing him to look up into sky-blue eyes. 

“That’s a nice dance ya got there sweetheart.” The mechanic murmured. “Nice song too if ya didn’t hide it.”

Ford would have blushed if his face wasn't already ruddy, which seemed to be the desired goal. 

“You look so cute when you’re flustered.” Fiddleford chuckled. He kissed Ford’s temple before pulling away, fingers trailing lightly along his side and making him shiver. “N’ you don’t have to stop, ya know.”

Ford tried not to look as embarrassed as he felt. As the bed dipped behind him he shyly began to move again, slowly at first. He quickly increased his pace though, rubbing his dick between his thighs and his stomach with even more intensity. It felt so  _ good _ , skin grinding on skin, it felt like sparks shooting through his nerves (and it was so rare he indulged in things like this at all,  _ lord _ ). This time he didn’t hide the sounds coming out of his mouth. He writhed and moaned and fisted his hands in the bed sheets and silently prayed for Fiddleford to  _ hurry the fuck up _ . 

“So beautiful…” Fiddleford sighed. A warm, wet finger suddenly circled Ford’s entrance and the man yelped at the sensation; it pressed in and Ford could almost feel his whole body twitch.

“Fiddleford…” He groaned, hips lifting and pressing back on the finger inside him. Fiddleford only hummed happily.

Stanford was already begging for more when he had barely adjusted to the single digit inside of him. He felt like he should have more control, but he was so driven by  _ need _ and  _ want _ and it had been so  _ long _ since he had felt this good. So he tried to fuck himself on Fiddleford's fingers as he moaned and whined and begged for Fiddleford to move  _ faster, please, just fuck me already-- _

"C-criminy Ford, ya gotta take it easy," Fiddleford grunted, obviously aroused by the writhing mess under him. A second finger was added, curling and stretching and thrusting in and out of Ford  _ agonizingly _ slowly. "I d-don't want to hurt ya."

"You c-could hurt me and I wouldn't--c- _ care _ , please--" Ford cut off with a jolt as Fiddleford added a third finger and brushed up against his prostate. Pleasure shuddered through him and all he could manage was a choked gasp.

"Ah, I think I found what I was lookin' for." Fiddleford said smugly. Ford found his voice when Fiddleford pressed in and hit his prostate again.

" _ Shit _ !" Lord he was ridiculously close for not doing much at all; he thought he had better stamina than this, but Fiddleford hit his prostate again and he was right on the edge. "Fidds! I c-can't-- _ ah _ \--I'm--"

Suddenly there was a strong grip on the base of his cock, preventing him from orgasm.

"Come on, Ford." Fiddleford purred, "You can hold on a little bit longer, can't ya?" 

"Fidds--" Ford hissed through his teeth desperately. He bucked into Fiddleford's hand, even though there wasn't anything to buck into. “N-need--please…” 

“Just a--a moment, darlin’.” The fingers left him and Ford whined. "Just a moment."

Fiddleford let go of him completely and lined himself up at Ford's entrance. Ford was surprised at the feel of latex.

"Condom?" He asked breathily.

"Y-yeah. M' clean, just...don't know what this vampirism deal's done to...ah...ya know." Fiddleford answered. Ford couldn't help but giggle at the idea.

"What? You think you're gonna make me a vampire with your semen? In my ass?" He tried and failed to keep the incredulity out of his voice.

"You wanna take that risk?" Fiddleford asked, unamused. After a serious thought (even though he highly doubted anything like that was possible, they really didn't know enough, did they?), Stanford shook his head.

"Not--not particularly. You make a good point. Nice thinking, Fiddleford." He said awkwardly.

Fiddleford laughed.

"Of course. Someone's got to 'round here." He teased.

"Hey I--ohhhhh  _ shit _ ," Stanford's growl turned into a drawn out moan as Fiddleford suddenly began to push in. Ford felt his eyes roll back as his whole body spasmed with pleasure. Fiddleford grabbed Ford’s hips to keep him still as he fully seated himself inside.  _ God _ Fiddleford reached deep.

"You w-were--were sayin'?" The mechanic panted, shifting just the tiniest bit. 

"Nnn--f-f--fuck you." Ford managed.

"Isn't that what I'm doin'?" Fiddleford growled playfully, pulling his hips back and snapping them forward. Ford scrabbled at the sheets as he cried out.

"Yes, fuck-- _ ah~ _ ! Harder, Fidds,  _ nnnn _ !" 

“Thought so.”

Fiddleford willingly obeyed, thrusting harder and faster in a steady rhythm and it wasn't long till Ford felt like he was falling apart. He couldn't even think straight; he couldn't even tell if the words tumbling out of his mouth were English or Yiddish; he could barely form the words to tell Fiddleford to go harder at all, but the man somehow understood and obeyed, much to Ford's increased volume. 

And suddenly Fiddleford was leaning over him, swiping his tongue along Ford's shoulders. Ford barely had the clarity to realize the mechanic was healing the scratches he had inflicted before pleasure and lust fogged everything out again. The prickling of his skin healing made him shudder convulsively, muscles dancing under the sensation. It was a new pleasure added on to everything else and it only made him moan louder. In fact, he almost didn't catch Fiddleford murmur into his skin.

"G-god, so beautiful, so b-b--nnn-- _ ah _ \--so good, feels so good…”

The mechanic was just as pulled apart as he was, but it didn’t affect his pace as Ford was pounded into the mattress. There was a short kiss pressed to the back of his neck, and Fiddleford was sitting up again. The new angle let him hit Ford’s prostate head on and the man practically  _ keened  _ in ecstasy.

“ _ Fiddleford! _ Fidds--Fi--Fi--” It was the only thing he had the mind to say and he could barely even say it, he could barely even _ breathe  _ anymore. The pleasure was too intense and he was so _ so _ close to coming,  _ so close _ …

Slender fingers wrapped around his cock, Fiddleford stroking him as he kept thrusting, and  _ oooohhhhh that was it _ . Ford hardly lasted three strokes before he  _ screamed. _ His eyes rolled back as his whole body shook from the strain. Wave after wave tore through him and it felt like his heart had stopped. Fiddleford kept pumping him through his orgasm, but it wasn’t long before he let out a cry of his own and his hips jerked, coming as well. 

Both men panted, shaking and sweaty from their release, and it was almost a full minute before Fiddleford pulled out and collapsed beside Ford, Ford only then remembering how to move and falling down to the bed as well. The sheets were a fucking mess now but Ford really couldn’t care less. If anything he was trying to find his voice again. And coherent thought. As pleasantly exhausted as he felt right now, curiosity still nagged at him.

“How long have you loved me?” He tried to say.

“H’long?” He rasped. His chest was still heaving.

“What?” Fiddleford huffed. When Ford twisted his head so he could see the mechanic, Fiddleford was peeling off the condom and tying it off. He tried again.

“How long...have you...loved me?”

Fiddleford froze mid-condom disposal. Taking a deep breath, he rolled over and threw out the condom in the wastebasket by the bedside, then rolled back with a big exhale.

“Uh...for a while.” He admitted slowly, quietly, staring at the ceiling and not looking anywhere else. “I guess I always have, platonically speakin’, at least...the romantic part came later. I just...I never thought you were interested, so I never really acted on it, so to speak, so it was easy to uh, ya know...ignore. And then there was Gina and...well...But up here, livin’ with you, watchin’ ya do what you do best and be you an’ all that...it made it all come back.”

Ford hummed, staring at the ceiling as well as the information sunk in.

“...Can I ask you the same thing?” Fiddleford murmured hesitantly. Ford himself sighed, hoping he could find the proper words to explain himself.

“It’s...I suppose it’s similar to your situation, sort of...no, not really.” He huffed, thinking. “The platonic love, I mean, is similar. And I suppose the romantic, but...I’ve--I don’t know, I’ve just never really felt anything like it before, for anyone. So I never really realized what it was. I guess I just thought we were really, really good friends. And...well, I suppose you somehow heard it earlier but...almost losing you made everything...click. But I figured, you know, what would someone like you see in a guy like me…”

Ford started a little as the mechanic suddenly towered over him, hands on either side of his shoulders trapping him in.

“I think we figured out the answer to that question, hm?” Fiddleford grinned, pressing a quick kiss to Stanford’s forehead before just as quickly rolling away to Ford’s side again. Stanford giggled.

“Yeah...although I think it’s a little amusing. Two geniuses like us, not noticing our own romantic inclinations towards one another--”

“And lettin’ the tension between each other build and build,” Fiddleford picked up on what he was saying, “Until it snapped like a rubber band and--”

“We went at each other like animals.” Ford finished, huffing a weak laugh. Fiddleford laughed with him for a moment, but went quiet. Stanford supposed he was still catching his breath. After all, they just had a round of  _ really  _ intense sex (and, granted a low bar to beat, the best Stanford had ever had), vampire stamina or no.

"Oh my god." Fiddleford groaned suddenly. "We fucked up."

"What?" Ford's head whipped over to look at him. The mechanic was rubbing his hands down his face.

"Ford, we fucked up. Oh my  _ god _ ."

" _ What _ ? What are you talking about?" Ford propped himself up, panic flooding through him. Did Fiddleford regret what they just did? Did Fiddleford not actually--

"I could probably survive off of  _ animal blood _ , Stanford." Fiddleford said exasperatedly. Relief flooded Stanford first, then exasperation akin to Fiddleford's. 

"Oh my god. You're right." He let himself fall back down with a similar groan. Both of them stared at the ceiling, dumbstruck by their own mindlessness.

"Mmhm." Fiddleford nodded.

"We fucked up."

"Yep."

"Animal blood. How did we not think of that?"

"We fucked up."

"We have  _ PhDs _ \--"

"You have PhDs."

"-- _ I _ have PhDs. What the hell?"

"We were...stressed?" Fiddleford suggested with a shrug. "I dunno. We definitely weren't thinkin' straight, that's for sure."

"So all that fighting...yelling at each other about life and death..."

"Pointless."

" _ Idiotic _ ." Stanford ran a hand through his hair. "We tore each other's heads off. For nothing."

"W-well, uh, I wouldn't say 'for nothing'..." 

Stanford looked back to Fiddleford. Fiddleford was staring back at him, with nervous hope in his eyes and a wary smile on his face. He felt five fingers tentatively intertwine with his six. 

"I mean...it forced a lot of things...out into the open..." Fiddleford added.

Ford knew that smile was basically an 'I love you' in and of itself, but a tiny seed of doubt had made its home in the back of his mind and wouldn’t let him go.

"Things that we could regret...but we don't, do we?" He breathed, hoping his tone wasn't fearful.

Fiddleford smiled wider.

"We don't...do we?" He asked, reflecting the question back onto Ford with a raised eyebrow. Ford grinned, tightening their handhold.

"We don't."

Ford shimmied closer to his lover and pulled him in for a chaste kiss. He could feel Fiddleford trying not to giggle against his lips and ruin it; he only ended up making Ford laugh, ruining it anyway. The two of them laughed, foreheads pressed together, at all of it. At the craziness, the ridiculousness, the wonderful mess of it all.

_ "We fucked up," indeed _ , Ford thought, grinning wider than ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welp here we are the whole damn reason I started writing this fic  
> first time posting smut, hope it's good!
> 
> Other Announcement: due to going back to school, chapters are back to being unscheduled. Sorry about that. I promise this fic will keep updating, just not as consistently as it has been.
> 
> Until next time!
> 
> PS: I've seen Gina used as a name for Fiddleford's wife several times, and I like it, so I figured I'd use it.


	7. Chapter 7

Stanford hadn’t wanted to fall asleep. He remembered lying close to Fiddleford, arms wrapped around each other as they laughed and kissed and Fiddleford had been so warm, so very warm…

So maybe he hadn’t _intended_ to fall asleep. He definitely wouldn’t have minded going another round. But he hadn’t exactly put himself in an environment where it would be easy to stay awake.

What it all boiled down to was that Stanford unintentionally fell asleep entangled with Fiddleford.

But he didn’t _wake up_ entangled with Fiddleford.

He woke up slowly, like a swimmer coming up for air. Except he wasn’t a swimmer, he was a fish, and he’d much rather swim in sleep’s waters for a little bit longer. But it wasn’t something his body seemed inclined to let him do. So maybe he was more like a whale, coming up for air only to dive back down or--or...or something. He was not one for figurative language when only just waking up.

He rolled onto his back with a small moan. It was quiet--not like he expected it to be otherwise--and the only reason he didn’t think he was alone was because he could feel the dip in the bed of another person. Ford sighed and and stretched out languidly, but of course doing that awoke a whole gamut of pain he wasn’t used to feeling. The sigh became a groan. He was decidedly _not_ used to being this sore. _Then again_ , he thought to himself, memories of the previous night clicking into place, _you’re not used to getting your ass pounded into a mattress. By a vampire, no less._

 _...By your best friend, no less_. He added, turning to look at the source of the dip in his bed. And well, it was his best friend. But...not sleeping?

“Fidds?” Ford breathed, pushing himself onto his elbows. Fiddleford was sitting up, kind of...he seemed to be slumped over the bedside table. He was wearing a fresh pair of pyjamas, but he wasn’t even under the covers. He was just sitting, on the edge of the bed.

“Fiddleford?” Ford asked, sitting up fully. No response. Stanford tried to see the time, but it wasn’t any good without his glasses. He reached over and gently shook Fiddleford’s shoulder. “Are you awake?”

Kind of a stupid question, since it was obvious Fiddleford wasn’t conscious at all. Ford gingerly pulled Fiddleford off of the bedside table and back, so he was cradling the mechanic in his arms. Fiddleford was breathing, but otherwise completely dead to the world. He held a pen tightly in one hand, and he had a bit of ink smeared across his cheek. Ford couldn’t help but laugh at that. Speaking of ink, he looked back to the bedside table where, true to form, there was sheet of notebook paper with a note. He snatched the note and his glasses, donning them before reading the note as he carded his fingers through his lover’s hair. Though Fiddleford’s handwriting was usually incredibly neat, bordering on calligraphic, increasing spelling mistakes as the letter went on as well as several crossed out mistakes and the increasing shakiness of it all made reading it a bit of a challenge. Ford managed to decipher this:

_Ford,_

_I would have stayed with you after you fell asleep (which I’m not upset about, by the way, what with the rollercoaster of a day we both had), but I just couldn’t fall asleep at all. Eventually I got too restless, so I got up. I cleaned up our clothes, and the laundry room (somehow we broke a shelf without realizing it). I went downstairs to try and do some research but, well, you know biology isn’t my forte. I don’t even know how to draw my own blood. I see you found my teeth...lord I hope they’re not gone forever_ [technically this was crossed out, but not crossed out enough for Ford to be unable to read it]. _I searched in our personal library for anything. I think I found a couple of books, but one seems a little hokey, and the other I’m fairly certain is fiction. Still I read through them, jotted some notes down. I wrote down what’s all different about my body, but I’m sure there’s more that I’m not aware of. I also wrote down exactly what the...transformation process, was like for me (it was terrible, so awful, I feel like I’m going to have nightmares_ [this was inadequately crossed out as well] _). I know I told you, but I figured more detail would help with research. Anyway, I’m leaving you this because I don’t want to wake you up, but the closer and closer it gets to morning the more exhausted I feel. It’s actually getting really hard for me to think straight at all_ [the evidence for that showed in the vast increase in spelling errors] _. I can’t even fight it at all. It doesn’t seem like sleep anymore, feels more like, forced hibernation almost. I don’t think I’ll wake up until nightfall, so I suppose I’ll see--_

After this point Fiddleford’s handwriting trailed off, quite literally. Ford laughed again at the fact that Fiddleford had still attempted to write, leaving plain squiggles on the paper until they sharply jutted off the page, from where his hand had slipped off the table. He set the note aside.

“Thank you, Fidds, for the note.” He said quietly, continuing to run his fingers through Fiddleford’s hair. It was soft, and Ford knew this wasn’t true but it felt like that pale blonde streak was even softer.

“I’m going to assume you can hear me,” He added, glancing at the clock--it was quarter to ten, far later than he was used to. “Based on yesterday’s events--although I’m not sure how, seeing as you’re completely dead to the world otherwise. It must have something to do with your occipital lobe...perhaps it’s a self-defense measure: if you hear anything threatening you’ll wake up no matter the time of day. I might have to run some experiments later--nothing crazy, just checking for REM sleep--or lack thereof, and so on and so forth…”

Ford smiled down at Fiddleford, honestly still marvelling at how peaceful the man looked when asleep. He probably could have drifted off like that, the action of stroking the man’s hair was so soothing...but then his stomach _growled_. Ford shifted where he sat, suddenly massively uncomfortable as his stomach panged with hunger.

“I guess it really is time to wake up.” He groaned. He spared one last glance down at his lover (it was still a little thrilling to use the term--just the fact that he got to use the word at all was something he wasn't sure he'd ever get the chance to do) before gently hefting the man off of him and onto the bed fully. He bent down and pressed a quick kiss to the sleeping man’s temple, the words “Bei mir bist du shayn” whispering past his lips once again. Gently he got out of bed, wincing at the pain. He really was more sore than he ever was used to feeling before--well, without the harrowing life-endangering adventure to go with it.

He padded over to full-length mirror in the corner of the room and took inventory. There were the bruises around his neck that had yellowed slightly, as well as the ones on his left forearm. There was one startling fresh bright red-purple bruise at the juncture of his neck and shoulder--Fiddleford may have healed the bite wound, but it seemed healing saliva didn’t do jack for hickeys (Ford made a mental note to see if he could get a sample of Fiddleford’s saliva at some point, to fully determine its healing capacity). There was the bite wound from those giant bats last week--it seemed like last night’s activities had opened it again, Stanford could see blood through the bandages, but it didn't really sting, so he assumed the bleeding had stopped a while ago. More bruises smattered his hips, and when he turned around, not only were there bruises on his ass, red lines stretched in groups of threes and fours around his shoulders and back. Again, it seemed while Fiddleford’s saliva healed the open scratches, it did nothing for the bruises and broken blood vessels beneath his skin. Yet Fiddleford had healed the artery in his wrist--so maybe the saliva needed direct contact with damaged tissue in order to heal it.

Gingerly he ran his fingers over a few of the scratches along his shoulder blades. Fiddleford had quite literally fucked him black and blue. It was quite fascinating how overtaken by pleasure he had been to not even notice the pain (suffice to say he definitely noticed it now, and ibuprofen was in his immediate future). And now he was all marked up. If anyone were to see they’d definitely know he belonged to someone else. _Owned_ , even.

The thought made his face flush in a way he hadn’t expected. He smiled.

He dressed in loose, comfortable clothing, nothing that would pull on his bruised skin too much: sweatpants and a t-shirt, a turtleneck over that (it was, after all, cold; furthermore, he had a feeling Fiddleford would worry if he caught a glimpse of any of the bruises Ford had). After placing some wood in the furnace he prepared himself a bowl of cereal.

It struck him, how quiet it was. He himself wasn’t a morning person--and to an extent, neither was Fiddleford. But Stanford’s mornings were usually spent listening to the mechanic hustle and bustle around the kitchen, cooking, making coffee, or cleaning any dishes in the sink (as there usually were a few). It was like movement and action was how Fiddleford woke himself up--while Stanford woke himself up with several cups of coffee and deep thought. It was their routine. Except...not anymore, for the time being.

Briefly Stanford considered changing his circadian rhythm to match Fiddleford’s; it would definitely help to have two minds together working on this rather than two minds apart. If they kept like this, they’d only be able to work together in the evenings, when Fiddleford woke up and before Stanford went to sleep. Of course, Stanford was no stranger to sleepless nights, but once Fiddleford had moved up to Gravity Falls a more strict sleep regimen had been implemented--not because Fiddleford forced it, but because it was only by seeing the other a complete wreck that they had realized sleeping was really more advantageous. But there was no point in adjusting his schedule over something temporary.

Of course...that’s assuming this whole situation _was_ temporary. Again Ford fought with the nagging fear that this was something he couldn’t fix. He _could_ fix it. He _had to_.

Eager to ease his own concerns, he wolfed down the rest of his breakfast, tossed back a couple of ibuprofen tablets, and went downstairs to the lab.

The two books Fiddleford had mentioned in his note were out and in plain sight when the gate to the elevator opened, next to an open notebook. Ford inspected them when he got to them, and almost laughed. _Interview with a Vampire_ was _definitely_ fiction; he had to read it for one of the few English courses he had had to take at Backupsmore, and, well, he was never one to get rid of a book. He noticed a few dog-eared pages and shook his head. From what he remembered, that book followed standard eurocentric vampire mythos, and wouldn’t add anything to whatever they already knew. The other book, however, was a thick volume, titled _Dr. Crackpot’s Index of the Damned_. He didn’t remember how he acquired this particular text, and Fiddleford was right--it _did_ sound hokey. But as he flipped through it, he found sections on ghosts, goblins, and werewolves. It seemed to be some sort of esoteric compendium of monster mythology (which, as he considered that, actually was a pertinent book to own, given his studies). And there did happen to be a section on vampires, marked by Fiddleford for Ford to find. A rather _large_ section on vampires. Stanford glanced over the abstract.

 _“Vampires arguably hold the title as the most pervasive of supernatural fauna in human myths and legends--as well as being known as the most difficult to pin down in terms of appearance, strengths, weaknesses, and predilections._ _Therefore, this section serves as a catalog of various beliefs as accounted by different cultures, and the analyzation of the commonalities and differences between them. It concludes with an amalgam of the arguably best ways to identify and kill a vampire.”_

Ford tried not to grimace at those last three words. He set the tome down in favor of perusing Fiddleford’s notes. As he had suspected, the notes on _Interview with a Vampire_ were sparse, and he could tell where Fiddleford had realized the book was fiction. The notes on the _Index_ , however, were far more extensive.

“ _Most European myths describe vampires as reanimated corpses,”_ He had written, “ _I'm definitely not dead now, I have a pulse and my heart is beating, but it could be argued that I died before transforming, since I was drained of all my blood; there was a period of unconsciousness during the process where I possibly was dead. If so, perhaps we should take a look at our research on zombies to see if anything matches up.”_

Stanford frowned, fingers tracing over the visibly shaky handwriting of his friend. It was understandable: who would feel comfortable talking about the possibility that they _died_?

A little further on he found Fiddleford had actually performed a few tests on himself.

_“It's approximately 2:34 AM. I'm going to attempt eating regular food again. I'm going to start with something easy: bread.”_

And below that:

“ _2:37. Stayed down for approximately 1 min 39 sec. Managed to make it to the bathroom in time, at least. My body seems to reject all regular food; it doesn't even taste like food to me. It tastes like dirt._

_“Note: water seems to stay down fine--guess I still need it to survive. And I still urinate normally...hooray, I guess._

_“Garlic is a popular ward against vampires, so I tested it out. The scent makes me sneeze terribly--so bad my eyes tear up and get red and puffy, like an allergic reaction. When I touched it it gave me a rash. Rather unpleasant. Hope you don't mind, Stanford, but I buried the few cloves we have in the back of the pantry._

_“Hawthorn and wild roses are also said to repel vampires (turn to page 394), but I don't think we have any of either. Not in this weather, at least._

_“Mustard seeds were another thing that's supposed to repel vampires; all they do is make me incredibly itchy._

_“We don't have any religious items in the house, not to my knowledge--at the very least, none that I can think that’d ‘repel’ me. I’m not sure a Menorah would work as it’s not--to my knowledge--the equivalent of a cross. I don't know where you keep it anyway.”_

Stanford couldn't help but chuckle at the thought. If any religious symbol of Judaism were to be effective, it’d likely be a Star of David. Maybe hamsas since, if he remembered correctly, they repelled evil. But Stanford found a problem with that thought: evil could be subjective. Vampires could be “evil”; Fiddleford was not evil by any means. Also, if any religious object from any religion would work, then that would imply that it was not the object itself that would repel, but the user’s faith. Ford found himself wondering _why_ religious faith in particular was supposed to repel vampires, but perhaps it was because the common notion was--according to the _Index_ \--that vampires were revenants, or simply demons, borne from improper burial rituals (which could be interpreted as a lack of faith).

After that the notes tapered off. It seemed Fiddleford hadn't managed to read through the entire section--perhaps it had been too close to morning when he had done so, and was too tired to finish. Stanford placed the note pages aside. Beneath them were a couple more pages. The one on top was neatly titled “The Transformation Process”.

Stanford blanched.

He had witnessed the aftermath of the “process”. He had witnessed the panic it sent Fiddleford into just to _remember_ it. He…

He wasn't ready to read this just yet. Call him a coward, but he couldn't bring himself to even touch the pages. So he stood up, resolutely decided to read them _later_ , and moved on.

The next few hours of research ended up somewhat futile, however. Stanford gathered all the books on biology and anatomy they owned, and poured over each and every one of them as to educate himself--in a way--on DNA and human anatomy. He examined Fiddleford’s human canines under a microscope: besides natural decay from being detached from their owner, there was nothing wrong with them. They hadn't rotted to the point of falling out or anything like that; there were jagged remains of gum tissue still in the tooth bed, and Stanford didn't have to examine them closer to come to the conclusion that they had been _forced_ out of the mouth, somehow, by the new teeth forming and growing in (he examined them closer anyway, outwardly for integrity and inwardly out of denial that Fiddleford’s notes on the “process” likely could have told him the same thing). Once he had exhausted that route, he had then taken to examining the samples of Fiddleford’s blood he had collected while cleaning the house. To his disappointment, while he found several strains of the flu virus Fiddleford had been carrying (dead ones, Ford found, to his relief), his blood was human. Nothing indicated any vampiristic infection whatsoever. So either a) it had somehow been eradicated from the system or b) it lay within Fiddleford’s current blood; no matter what, the theory that all of his human blood had been flushed out and replaced with vampire blood was becoming more and more likely. This again, was probably described by Fiddleford in “The Transformation Process”...

Time for experiments.

Ford gathered everything he thought he’d need and brought it all upstairs. Once everything was laid out on the kitchen table, he took out a notebook and wrote down every single experiment that he thought was important; a list of things to do, to keep him organized. Well...they weren’t really experiments. More like...tests. A list of theories for Ford to check. And there weren’t too many of them.

He grabbed a few things off the table and headed upstairs to his room (...was it _their_ room, now?), where Fiddleford was still fast asleep, as he expected.

“Fiddleford…” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Um...again, I’m--I’m assuming you can hear me. I’m just--I’ve been working, down in the lab, but I’ve done almost everything I can do down there, without samples of your blood...your current blood. I’m sure I could take some now, but I know how squeamish you are around needles, and I’d rather you be a awake and giving your consent. So now I’m just going to run a few tests. Nothing invasive, just like...like a doctor’s exam! I’ll probably be repeating it all when you’re awake to see if there are changes.”

Of course, the man on the bed did not move nor make a sound.

“Alright, to start off, I’m just going to check for certain sleeping patterns. Right now it seems you’re in a deep sleep--you’re not fidgeting, which could be REM atonia, however. I’m just going to check...your...eyes…” Stanford said as he clambered onto the bed with a penlight. He pulled Fiddleford into his lap and propped the man’s head up. “Apologies if this wakes you up--and don’t worry, all the curtains are closed, so no sunlight will get through, not that it’s sunny, really.”

As gently as possible he lifted Fiddleford’s eyelids. It...didn’t cause the man to stir at all. Stanford swallowed nervously: Fiddleford’s eyes were completely still. They gazed straight up.

“Well...that’s not normal.” He took the penlight and shined it in first one, then the other eye. No reaction whatsoever: Fiddleford didn’t stir, and other than his pupils dilating naturally his eyes didn’t even twitch. Stanford clicked off the penlight.

“No rapid eye movement, which could suggest one of two things: deep sleep, or...ah...paralysis. If you can hear everything, but can’t do anything else, that could be paralysis. But at the same time, you’re...not awake, at least, from what you’ve said it appears you’re asleep. You wake up rested, at least. Let’s see…”

Gently Ford moved Fiddleford’s head back and forth. His eyes remained stationary--moving in relation to his head; the doll’s eye reflex was unsuppressed then, like a deep-coma patient’s. Noting the occurrence, Ford let Fiddleford’s eyes close--actually, they didn’t even shut on their own, he had to gently close them.

Stanford didn’t own a reflex hammer (after all, he wasn’t _that_ kind of doctor...yet), but he had attached some foam to a regular hammer. It should suffice. He sat Fiddleford up and maneuvered the man so his legs were dangling over the edge of the bed.

“I’m just going to check your reflexes.” He explained. He was well aware by this point that Fiddleford wouldn’t wake up or respond, but Ford would have felt incredibly guilty if he didn’t tell Fiddleford everything: after all, the man would then wake up that evening confused, with no idea what had been done to his body. That’d be a terrible thing to do.

“Here we go.”

He whacked Fiddleford’s left knee lightly: no response. He tried again a little harder--still nothing. So it definitely wasn’t a lack of pressure on Ford’s part. He checked Fiddleford’s other knee just to be sure--nada.

“Hmm...no reaction to external stimuli. This supports the paralysis theory.” Ford said as he laid Fiddleford back down among the sheets. “Perhaps it’s…perhaps it’s paralytic sleep. Not sleep paralysis, since that only occurs when waking up or falling asleep...this is all so strange. Why would vampires need to paralyze themselves to sleep?”

“Perhaps it has something to do with sunlight.” He continued to theorize aloud. “I’m fairly certain a few cultures believe that vampires will turn to stone in the sunlight--no, wait, that was trolls. No, vampires will...turn to dust, or burn to ash. In popular culture, at least. Damn.

“And then there’s the matter of your hearing. Why in the world would your occipital lobe still be so active? I wish I had some sort of device that could let me read your brain signals, like an EEG almost. But I highly doubt it would go over well if I tried to sneak you into a hospital. I think I suggested earlier that the activity might work as a self-defense measure. Hmm…”

After thinking for a few minutes, hand absentmindedly stroking Fiddleford’s hair, Stanford stood up.

“Maybe I can trigger it…” He muttered under his breath. He straightened, taking a deep breath…

“WAKE UP!” He yelled, pivoting on his heel.

...Fiddleford didn’t stir.

Stanford crossed his arms. So. This wasn’t going to be easy (if possible at all). He paced for a few moments, very quietly, before trying again.

He jumped, slamming his feet on the floor, and screamed at the top of his lungs. Besides sending him into a coughing fit (and possibly tears, the bruises around his throat were still so goddamn _tender_ ), it did nothing. Fiddleford was as unwavering as a rock.

The next few attempts to wake him up were equally fruitless (and embarrassing). In one particular instance Ford was jumping around so wildly he accidentally slammed his head on the door frame. Even his agonized curses didn’t succeed in waking his friend. And then he tried flipping a chair over, and then ripping the sheets off the bed…

In the end he flopped onto the bed with an exasperated sigh.

“God, I’m never going to live this down, am I?” He grumbled into the pillow. “You’re gonna wake up the first thing you’re gonna do is find me and laugh in my face. I’m calling it now, Fiddleford. Even the excuse of ‘science’ isn’t going to save me. Just--” He jerked upright “-- _how_ on earth does this self-defense system work!? Is it even a self-defense mechanism? If not, then _why on earth_ is your occipital lobe active? I swear to god it’s probably just so you can hear me sound like an idiot.”

He finished his rant with a sigh, slumping forward. Of course, there was the road he hadn’t tried.

“It...It might be triggered by physical harm. That’s a variable that hasn’t been tested.” He murmured. He grunted and ran his hands through his hair. “And like _hell_ I’m going to test it. Bah, I couldn’t lay a finger on you Fidds. Science be damned.”

“I suppose I’ll figure it out some other way. I...I hope I didn’t bother you too much, Fidds.” He added. He patted Fiddleford’s shoulder. “You can yell at me when you wake up if I did.”

And with that embarrassing failure, Ford made his way back down to the basement. And then promptly made his way back up, because it was far past lunch time, and he needed _something_ to hold him over till dinner. As he waited for the elevator to descend to the lab, munching on a banana, words from last night hit him and he cursed.

“Oh goddammit Fidds! We didn’t need a fucking condom, I swallowed your semen five minutes before you fucked my ass! God _damn_.” Ford smacked his forehead. “PhDs, PhDs…” He grumbled to himself as he scuffed the floor frustratedly.

He tossed the banana peel in a wastepaper basket and strode over to his desk. Again ignoring “The Transformation Process”, he shuffled papers around until he found the other note pages from before. He glanced over them again, until one bullet point in particular caught his eye.

“ _Whenever I’m upstairs, I can hear your heartbeat since the house is so quiet. It definitely awakes some sort of predatory desire, but it’s easy to redirect into...other outlets. I don’t know how powerful my hearing is otherwise. I can’t hear your heartbeat from here in the lab, but I don’t know if I’d be able to hear you if, say, you were talking.”_

“Hearing…” Ford mumbled to himself. Suddenly he gasped. That was it! The reason Ford hadn’t been able to trigger any kind of “defense mechanism” was because Fiddleford could _hear_ him explain what he was about to do beforehand! Fiddleford didn’t perceive an attack because he knew there wasn’t going to be a real one.

“So I’d have to simulate a threatening situation _without_ Fidds knowing it's a simulation.” Ford murmured. He contemplated actually trying that, if only to prove the defense-mechanism theory, but...the more he thought about it, the more reluctant he was to try it. Firstly, it would obviously be without Fiddleford’s consent, and likely give the man a bit of a scare. Secondly, “scared” might not be the reaction triggered. It could be rage, and violence. If Fiddleford perceived Stanford as a threat he could very well wind up dead.

So that was out of the question. Stanford sighed, putting the notes down. He check the clock--it was half past four. He had done almost everything he could without Fiddleford. Almost. He glanced over to the pages he had set aside and sighed again. He steeled himself, grabbed the pages, and began to read “The Transformation Process”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Update! Sorry it took so long, I have numerous projects, and then I had finals, and now summer class...  
> This one's mostly expository, but hey, Ford is first and foremost a scientist. I hope you enjoy!


	8. Chapter 8

_How can you possibly fix this!? You’ve ruined his life! It’s your fault_ your fault, _how could you have let this happen? But how could you have known what would happen? You study the_ un _known! But you knew it was dangerous, could be dangerous, yet you dragged Fiddleford out there anyway! It was never even in the job description you gave him, and now look where you’ve landed him! How can you possibly fix this!?_

Rinse. Repeat. The thoughts never ceased to plague Ford’s thoughts as he paced and paced and _paced_. His hands twisted themselves behind his back, where he had clasped them to keep them from shaking. If those thoughts weren’t occupying his mind then it was the words he had just read.

_“It started from my shoulder, like an ache. I didn’t even register it at first. But then it felt like rippling in my skin, like something was crawling through my body. Crawling, not shivering, that’s why I noticed it. But then the nausea hit…”_

_“...I made it to the bathroom--somehow. I couldn’t stop the blood pouring out of my mouth or my nose, in fact, screaming only made it worse. But I couldn’t seem to stop screaming, there was too much pain, there was too much fear--and my heart was beating too fast, so fast I thought it was going to burst and I could_ hear _it too…”_

 _“...By then blood had started coming out of my tear ducts, making it difficult to see. But I still remember so vividly seeing my reflection in the mirror. I_ watched _my reflection fade out, like a ghost. I thought that that’s what I was becoming…”_

_“...I managed to stay on my feet until my teeth...my teeth fell out. I reeled from the burst of pain in my jaw and slipped on the blood that had spilt on the floor. At that point it was too much. My muscles were seizing in agony, so I was spasming on the ground like a fish out of water (though with all the blood in my throat it felt like I was drowning). I couldn’t move anymore, I only had the strength to lie there as blood poured out of every orifice in my body, until eventually everything faded to black. I thought it was death.”_

“Stanford?”

He almost didn’t catch it at first, it matched so perfectly with the voice in his head, reading those words, those _horrors_ \--but the clank of the elevator door opening made him whirl.

Fiddleford stepped out, dressed like he usually did for their work, in a button down shirt and slacks--but no tie though. He had combed his hair properly and for all the world would look absolutely normal (albeit glasses-less), if his pupils weren’t slitted against the light.

Ford bolted to the man and threw his arms around him.

“Woah, woah!” Fiddleford cried, not even thrown off balance as he reflexively returned the embrace. “Ford, what--what’s going on!?”

“I’m sorry.” Ford breathed into the man’s shoulder, fighting and failing to stop his own shaking. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry? Back up a second, Ford.” Fiddleford pulled away as much as he could with Stanford holding on to his shoulders. “If this is about those tests it’s fine, you didn’t bother me, really, it felt more like a dre--”

“I’m sorry for all of it!” Ford interrupted. “I’m sorry that you’re _like_ this at all, I’m sorry you had to--had to--go through  _that_!”

He gestured wildly to his desk, where the notes of the transformation process lay scattered. Fiddleford glanced over Stanford’s shoulder and made the connection immediately. He deflated.

“Dammit, I knew I used too much detail, I knew I wasn't objective enough. Ford, you can’t blame yourself for that. You couldn’t have known--”

“Fiddleford, I have almost been _killed_ by a level ten ghost. I once got poisoned by a creature down by the river and was bedridden for a _week_ and nearly starved to death as a result! I _know_ _full well_ that those woods out there are dangerous! And what do I do every fucking day!? I _drag_ you out there with me, even though it’s not what you’re interested in, it’s not what I _hired_ you for, I put you in harm’s way day in and day out and _now_ look what’s happened--”

“Stanford! Stop!” Fiddleford cut him off loudly, seizing the shorter man by the shoulders; the grip had no pressure in it, but Ford stopped nonetheless. “You can’t blame yourself for this. _At all_.”

“Fidds, if it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t be a--”

“Stanford, if it weren’t for you,” Fiddleford waved him quiet, “where, exactly, would I be right this second?”

“Fiddleford, that’s not--”

“ _Where_ _would I be_?”

Ford sighed.

“In jail.” He allowed.

“Exactly, I’d be rotting away in the Palo Alto Penitentiary, if _who_ hadn’t posted my bail?” Fiddleford continued pointedly.

“Your ex-wife, as I recall.” Stanford snipped.

“ _Yes_ , but who persuaded her to post it?” His lover snapped exasperatedly. Ford opened his mouth to protest, but closed it again. Reluctantly he bowed his head in defeat.

“...I did.”

“Mhmm.” Fiddleford nodded. “And I can assure you as the only one of us that has experienced incarceration that I would much rather be here than rotting in prison, no matter the circumstances.”

“Fidds, those pages were covered in _tear_ stains!” Stanford gritted, head snapping back up. “And that was just from _remembering_ it.”

Fiddleford looked away at that, and his expression gained an edge of pain to it.

“It’s no doubt something that I’d gladly forget,” He said quietly, giving a single nod of acquiescence. “But I knew it was necessary in order to figure out how to change me back.” He looked back to Stanford, gaze hardening. “And although I admit I...my emotions got the better of me when I wrote those notes, you told me yourself last night that we need to be scientists about this.”

Stanford winced at his own words being thrown back at him. For the first time he was finding it nigh on impossible to remain objective about the situation--because it was too close to home, it was _Fiddleford_.

“I can’t follow my own advice anymore, I care about you too much.” Stanford admitted, exhaling heavily, _guiltily_. “And all I’ve done is get you hurt. You’d--”

 Fiddleford halted whatever he was going to say next by leaning in to kiss him. The action made Ford’s heart leap, he hadn’t been expecting it.

“Stanford Pines,” Fiddleford began when he pulled away, smiling lightly, “I’m still here, ain’t I? I won’t deny that this whole situation has scared the shit out of me, but you know what? All the dangers of Gravity Falls combined haven’t sent me running with my tail between my legs yet, an’ I don’t plan on it happening at any point in the near future. I _want_ to be here, danger be damned. I want to be here, with _you_.”

Ford couldn’t find the words to respond, but he still looked tortured. Fiddleford’s smile fell.

“Ford, please, don’t blame yourself for something you couldn't control.” He murmured, before pulling Ford into another kiss. This one was gentler, and lasted longer, and the way Fiddleford’s lips moved against Ford’s own had him practically melting against the mechanic in no time. Warm hands at the back of his neck reminded him how cold it was in the lab, and he pressed forward into the other man. The contact was comforting--if it didn’t assuage his guilt, it at least distracted him from it--but it also made Ford’s heart flutter, it--it was the first (or second, technically) time they had kissed without being incredibly emotionally charged in some way.

Although Fiddleford broke the kiss, it was Stanford who spoke first, the words spilling out before he could stop them.

“We really are a couple, aren’t we?” He breathed. Fiddleford’s eyes widened as he blushed. He pulled away from Ford, hands dropping to his sides.

“Uh, that’s--it’s--w-well only--we don’t have to be.” He stammered, looking... _guilty_? Ford tilted his head.

“Why wouldn’t we be?” He asked. “Considering we had sex last night--considering we confessed our _love_ for each other last night.”

“Well, yes, but--it’s just--” The man continued to fumble.

“Do you not want this?” Ford asked, fighting to keep his tone neutral.

“No! No I do! I do want this!” Fiddleford rushed to say, grabbing Ford’s hands tenderly and running his thumb over the knuckles. He bit his lip as he stared down at them. “I’m just…” He took a deep breath, “I’m just worried it ain’t consensual.”

“‘Consensual’?” Ford echoed, confused. “Why wouldn’t it be consensual? I love you Fidds. That sounds pretty consensual to me.”

“But that’s it!” Fiddleford cried. “I’m--it might not be you!”

“Fiddleford you’re not making any sense.” Ford deadpanned. Fiddleford let go of him and appeared to shrug helplessly. He looked quite conflicted.

“Come on Ford, I’ve read _Dracula_. Haven’t you?” He huffed. Ford wracked his mind for the book, and found it in a memory of Fiddleford lending it to him to read over the summer several years ago (re-read, actually--Ford had read it when he was 10, and at the time had believed it to be real). He made a face.

“You’re not turning me into a vampire, Fiddleford--and moreover than that,” Stanford held a hand up to halt his lover’s interruption. “You are _not_ seducing me, and I have _not_ been seduced.”

“That’s because you might not be aware it’s happening!” Fiddleford pointed out. Ford scowled.

“My love for you is real, Fiddleford. It’s not some kind of hypnotism or weird vampire magic. It’s _real_.”

“How would you know?” Fiddleford retorted, disbelieving.

“How would _I_ know?” Ford snapped, crossing his arms. He was feeling a little offended--a little _more_ than offended that Fiddleford couldn’t believe his emotions were sincere. “I know because the moment I realized I loved you wasn’t the first time you bit me, or the first time you kissed me, or when you told me you loved me or when you _fucked_ me!”

Fiddleford took a step back from the anger and hurt in his voice.

“I know because the moment I realized I loved you--more than friend, more than _family_ , I loved you--was the same moment I thought you were _dead_!” Ford shouted, tears held back for the past few hours finally spilling over. “And it was the _worst_ feeling in the world, not knowing what I had until I thought it was gone! And when I read what you wrote, it just reminded me of my mistake.” Ford sighed, letting his arms drop. In his thoughts were every pleasant moment he and Fiddleford shared; every excursion that had ended in exhausted laughter; Dungeons, Dungeons, and more Dungeons sessions that would last for _days_ on end; studying for exams and studying mysterious creatures; all the things that Ford had never fathomed could vanish in the blink of an eye like it almost had. “I took you for granted, Fiddleford. I don't ever want to do that to someone in my life again. Especially not to you. _That’s_ how I know I love you.”

“Stanford…” Fiddleford murmured, dumbstruck by the outburst. But Stanford continued.

“And yes, I _know_ that I’ve never been a relationship like this, I _know_ I’ve never felt this way for anyone else, I’ve never loved anyone as much as I love you now but--but just because it’s a correlation it doesn’t mean it’s a causation, Fidds. If anything it was a catalyst.” Ford’s fists were clenching and unclenching, he stared at the ground nervous and frazzled. Everything he had said was the truth--he had never felt like this before, but he didn’t want it to be ripped away so quickly just because it might not be real.

 _Do you realize how desperate that sounds?_ His own thoughts retaliated, a doubtful, cringing voice from the back of his mind. _It’s almost like you’re addicted to a high, like you’ve been drugged, or...hypnotized._

 _It’s real, what I feel isn’t an illusion!_ Ford spat internally, outwardly biting his lip. He jolted as Fiddleford tilted his chin up to look at him.

“I’m sorry, Ford. I--I’ll believe you.” He said apologetically. The hand at Ford’s chin moved up to brush away his tears (shit, he was still crying?). When Ford sniffed, he pulled the shorter man into a hug. “I trust you--I trust your judgement on this. But if at any point you don’t feel comfortable, or you don’t want this anymore-- _please_ tell me.”

“O-okay.” Ford said. Suddenly he jerked away with a shaky laugh, hand running through his hair. “This is--Fidds I--shit, this feels _crazy_. First you were crying and then we were fighting and then--then the kissing--and then--and now _I’m_ crying--I’m so sure I love you but this feels like some insane rollercoaster!”

Fiddleford paused for a moment, bewildered, before laughing. He rested one hand on Stanford’s shoulder, the other knocking the hand in Ford’s hair away to smooth the mess he had made of it.

“Oh, darlin’, you’ll be surprised how often love is like that.” He smiled softly, _adoringly_ , it was making Ford’s heart flutter again.

“It doesn’t help that I seem to be going through mood swings faster than kids on a playground.” The mechanic added. “Probably a side effect from the transformation--or just a symptom of the mental stress of it all. And--Stanford, when’s the last time you ate?”

“Uh, um--I think a banana, a little while ago.”

“Did you have lunch before that?”

“...No.” Stanford admitted. Fiddleford snorted.

“Well, there ya go. We’re both hungry--and we both get a special kind of crabby when we’re hungry.”

“Oh right!” Ford said, smacking his forehead. “It’s essentially breakfast time for you, do you want me to--”

“No, no.” Fiddleford cut him off quickly, smile replaced by concern and wariness. “No, let’s--let’s focus on gettin’ you fed first.”

“You’re right,” Ford nodded, walking past him towards the elevator, “It’d be good to make sure my blood sugar is stable before you drink my blood.”

“Uh, sure, let’s go with that.” Fiddleford mumbled, trailing after him. But he stopped and called after Ford: “Darlin’, wait a second.”

“Yes?” Stanford turned on his heel, blushing slightly at the use of the pet name.

“Can I just--can I try something?” Fiddleford asked, eyes thoughtful. “I want to try something.”

“Uh, sure?” Stanford shrugged.

The mechanic walked over to him with measured strides. He seemed to look Stanford up and down before dropping into some kind of squat.

“Fiddleford what are you--”

“Alley-oop.” Fiddleford seized Stanford by the waist and lifted him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes-- _with ease_.

“-- _OH MY GOD_!” Ford scrabbled in a panic, but couldn’t free himself.

“This is nice development.” Fiddleford commented, walking towards the elevator even as Ford continued to struggle.

“What--how--put me down!” He cried.

“Nope.” Was the response.

“Fiddleford Hadron McGucket you put me down _right now_!” Ford yelled, pummeling the man’s back. It seemed to have no effect.

“Ah, revenge is sweet.” Fiddleford sighed happily, stepping into the elevator and closing the gate.

“Alright, I get it. I can pick you up easily, and now you can pick me up easily. Vampire strength. Ha ha, very funny, _put me down_.” Ford snarled.

“Nah, I kinda like this. You hardly weigh more than Tate t’me now.” Fiddleford replied, bouncing Ford a little on his shoulder. Ford almost screeched.

“We’re in the elevator already! Can’t you just put me down!?” Ford protested. He felt far too wide for Fiddleford’s thin shoulders. “It’s so unstable!”

“Now you know how I feel.” Fiddleford said nonchalantly. Ford growled and continued to writhe, to no avail. The elevator reached the first level, and Fiddleford stepped out and began to hop up the steps. Stanford stopped writhing then, the bouncing motion cowing him into clinging to his captor. But when they were on level ground he decided to get revenge; he reached down and pinched Fiddleford’s ass.

And got a slap on his own in return, which prompted a loud squeak.

“Asshole!” Ford gritted. Fiddleford laughed. He made his way to the kitchen, and there he finally set Ford down on a chair. Before Ford could lash into him Fiddleford pressed in for a quick kiss.

“Love you too.” He said when he pulled away. Ford huffed and crossed his arms, sitting back in the chair and crossing his legs too.

“A kiss doesn’t rectify that, Fiddleford.” He snipped.

“Oh look at you!” Fiddleford cackled. “You look like an angry fluffed up ol’ owl!”

Ford only continued to glower. When Fiddleford realized this, he hushed up and only smiled, raising his hands in surrender.

“Alright, alright. A kiss might not earn forgiveness, but how about dinner?” He offered. Ford would have protested that too, but his stomach growled traitorously. Fiddleford chuckled.

“I’m going to assume I have my answer.”

“You assume correctly.” Ford huffed, loosening up a little bit. He really could do with a meal. But as he watched his lover bustle about the kitchen he remembered the last time Fiddleford had tried to cook.

“Fidds--do--do you want me to help? Last time you…”

“Oh, right…” Fiddleford paused in the light of the refrigerator. “I--well, I think as long as I’m gentle as possible I should be fine.”

After rummaging through the fridge for a few moments, Ford heard the mechanic grumble irritably.

“We need to go shoppin’--or at least, you need to go shopping.” He said.

“I went out yesterday.” Ford pointed out.

“Yes, but all you got was medicine because I was sick at the time.” Fiddleford retorted, standing up and shutting the fridge. He went over to the cabinets and began rifling through them. Well, not rifling, per se--more like rifling in slow motion. Fiddleford opened every cabinet with utmost care, and closed it in the same way once he was done. He definitely didn’t want a repeat of last night.

“Are you good on beans?” He asked, eyeing a can.

“Sure.” Ford nodded.

Fiddleford got out a pot and set it up on the stove to preheat. After that he seemed to hit some kind of dilemma. He searched through drawer after drawer, but couldn’t seem to find what he was looking for.

“Ford, do you have any idea where the can opener is?” The man asked. Ford frowned.

“It’s not in the drawer next to the fridge?”

“No. I must have misplaced it last night while I was trying to make you soup.” Fiddleford sighed, hands on his hips. He glanced at the can of beans for a moment, then suddenly turned and grabbed it. Again he eyed it, rubbing his chin in thought.

“Fiddleford?” Stanford’s brow knit in confusion. Fiddleford didn’t seem to hear him. The man seemed to be doing something with his tongue as he stared at the can. He hummed, then shrugged, then--

 _Then he bit into the can_.

“Fiddleford what-- _what_! Stop!” Stanford cried, jumping to his feet. But Fiddleford didn’t stop; Stanford watched, bewildered. Fiddleford cut along the edge of the can, using one of his fangs to saw through the metal. He didn’t stop until he had cut through most of the can. He had some trouble dislodging his tooth from it, making a few grunting noises before he broke free.

“That oughtta do it.” He said, smacking his lips. “I think I actually cut my gum there. My blood tastes weird.” Except, after a pause wherein he seemed to run his tongue over the fang: “Wait. Nope. Nope I’m good. It’s healed up.”

He turned to Stanford and grinned, holding the open can triumphantly.

“Bein’ a vampire’s got some advantages, at least.”

Stanford released the breath he was holding in one huge exhale, deflating back into his seat.

“Yes, yes I suppose it does.” He breathed, wiping a hand down his face. He jumped as he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“I startled ya, didn't I?” Fiddleford murmured, rubbing his shoulder comfortingly. “I'm sorry about that. I'm just, well--I'm trying to listen to what ya told me last night--just trying to be me, is all. Tryin’ to keep on trucking.”

“No, no, that's fine just--I guess my head is still trying to parse the fact that you’re _super_ human, now. That you can't get hurt so easily.”

“I’m still trying to parse it myself, it’s alright. You’ve had a long day.” Fiddleford pressed a quick kiss to Ford’s forehead. “Let’s get some food in you.”

“You’re too good to me, Fiddleford. I swear you’re a blessing.” Stanford smiled warmly, settling back in the chair.

“Oh hush, you know how much I love to cook.” The mechanic waved it off as he dumped the beans into the pot, but Stanford could see him blush to his ears and smiled wider. “Even if it is just beans.”

“What does it smell like to you?” Ford asked, suddenly curious. Fiddleford sniffed, then shrugged.

“Smells like beans, I guess. Except now it doesn’t smell like food. You know how you smell things, and if it’s food your brain registers it as food? But if it’s not it’s just another smell? The beans are just another smell t’me now. Everything in the kitchen is, really. But I still recognize them, fairly well actually. Especially how everything smells together. For example,” The man added a bit of pepper into the pot, “If I add anymore pepper to this, it’ll be too spicy, I can smell it.”

“Really? Impressive.” Ford commented. After listening to the soothing sound of the wooden spoon scraping the pot as Fiddleford stirred, he said: “Everything in the kitchen is just another smell--except me, yes? Do you register me as food?”

Fiddleford immediately stiffened, and the scraping sound ceased. Ford distinctly heard _nothing_ \--no sound, no movement, as if Fiddleford didn’t even want to allow himself to breathe.

“Not exactly.” He said finally, words as stiff as his posture. “You’re not food, but you’re _carrying_ food. It’s like uh...um...like a cafe. You don’t have to have food, but it’s there, and it’s offered, and it’s in your face and it becomes all you can smell. If you’re not hungry it doesn’t bother you as much…”

“But if you’re hungry…” Ford prompted.

“It becomes all you can think about.” Fiddleford sighed, adding a few more seasonings before resuming his stirring.

“Is it--”

“Right now? No.” Fiddleford said quickly. “I’ll be fine for a little while longer. Come get your beans. I--ah--I don’t want to risk breaking another bowl.”

“Alright.” Stanford went and retrieved a bowl from the cabinet and scooped most of the contents of the pot into it. He turned to Fiddleford, smiling as the bowl warmed his hands.

“Thank you, Fidds. I’ll try to eat fast, then you can eat. Or drink. I guess it’s drinking.”

“Uh--it’s, it’s no rush...” Fiddleford said tentatively, “I...I know you’ll likely--it’s not...” Finally he seemed to gain some resolve, and clenched his fists. “Look, I’m going out tonight.”

“What do you mean?” Ford asked.

“I’m going out. To...to eat.” Fiddleford said. “Like we figured last night--I can probably drink animal blood to sustain myself. So that’s what I’m gonna do.”

Stanford set the bowl down, alarmed.

“What? Fiddleford, it’s still a _blizzard_ out there!”

“It’s not as bad as it was.” Fiddleford shook his head.

“Nonetheless, what do you expect to hunt in this weather?” Ford argued. “Furthermore, in this weather, what if you get _lost_? You could get caught out there in the daylight!”

“No I won’t, because I should be back long before dawn. Ford, I just--you know how you were yellin’ last night about how I was just gonna roll over and die because I wouldn’t drink your blood? Well, we’ve found the middle road to that! I won’t die, and--and I won’t hurt you anymore--it’s a win-win Ford.”

“It’s still risky.” Ford frowned. “I’d rather you stay home, and safe. If you’re worried about predatory instincts or the like--well, last night it…” He reached out to rest a hand on Fiddleford’s hip, stepping into the man’s space. “Last night I think we were able to divert them in more pleasurable pursuits.”

Fiddleford’s hand covered Ford’s own, but he didn’t push him away. Nor did he pull Ford closer.

“You’re right, Stanford. I didn’t lose control last night--but that doesn’t mean I didn’t hurt you--and don’t try to tell me I didn’t, you’re covering up for a reason.”

“W-wha--no, no I’m--”

“Ford, I _saw_ them. The bruises, the scratches--I’d like not to repeat that. In fact, I don’t even want to have sex with you anymore, not unless I’m...sated, I guess. But that way there’s less risk.” His hands were on Ford’s shoulders, but Fiddleford’s eyes were on the ground. A fang worried at his lower lip.

Ford’s brow furrowed in thought. No matter what Ford seemed to say, Fiddleford was reluctant or downright refused to drink his blood. While the blizzard outside was a risk, Ford had to remind himself that his lover was a lot stronger, more powerful than he used to be.

“Think of it as an experiment, Ford.” Fiddleford suggested. “I can use this opportunity to test my--whatever newfangled abilities I’ve got. Maybe see how much I need to drink to be _fully_ sated--because--and I didn’t tell you this because I knew you’d do something stupid--I’m not drinking enough when I drink from you. I won't because it's too much, I would really hurt you then. I’m still hungry when I stop, but it’s easier to ignore. So, let me just...let me try this, Ford. And I’ll report back.”

Ford sighed.

“You’re really gung-ho about this, aren’t you?”

“It’s the best option. It keeps me alive and keeps you safe.” Fiddleford nodded. “Please trust me, Ford.”

“...I guess I can’t stop you.” Ford shrugged. “I’d still prefer it if you stayed home, but I do trust you Fiddleford.”

“Thank you darling.” Fiddleford broke into a smile, pulling away.

“Wait, you’re leaving _now_?” Ford asked; Fiddleford had walked straight out of the room--fairly rapidly, too--Ford almost had to jog to keep up.

“Well, the earlier I do this, the sooner before dawn I’ll come back.” Fiddleford said as he grabbed a light jacket off of the coat hooks by the door. Ford’s first instinct was to tell Fiddleford to grab something much warmer--but then he remembered the man was standing in the snow just fine last night in his boxers alone. Fiddleford did noticed his worried look, however, and he came back to Ford.

“Stanford, I’ll be okay. Promise. You should eat, and then get some rest.” Fiddleford said. He tilted Ford’s chin up and kissed the shorter man. Ford couldn’t deny that he tried to make the kiss a little too passionate, and held his lover a bit too close and too tight; Fiddleford escaped easily nonetheless, but he wore a knowing smile.

“I’ll be back when you wake up, Ford. I promise.” He said. He turned on his heel, leaving Stanford’s arms empty. Cold wind gusted through the door when the mechanic opened it, and Ford couldn’t help but shiver at the bitterness. But Fiddleford was unfazed, and he stepped through the door determinedly. As soon as the door was closed behind him, Ford deflated.

“Be safe.” He murmured. He went back to the kitchen to eat his beans. Which were now cold. Great. At least he could reheat them on the stove--and they _were_ very tasty.

Most of Ford’s night after that was spent fretting, unfortunately. There wasn’t anymore research he could do without Fiddleford there; he was too tired to try transcribing what he had to his journal--and he wanted more concrete data before he did so anyway; nothing was on the TV this late at night; and any book he tried to read to distract himself simply didn’t distract him enough. The later it got the more concerned Ford became.

How long would it take Fiddleford to find any animals? Would he be able to catch them if he did? What if he travelled too far out and couldn’t make it back home in time? What if he somehow ran into something dangerous out there? Something that even as a vampire he couldn’t handle?

Eventually Ford realized his thoughts were just running in useless circles. And waiting up for Fiddleford was just exhausting him further. He might as well sleep.

After all, Fiddleford would be back when Ford woke up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> baBAM! Next chapter! Some drama, some emotions, some fluff, and some Fiddleford...being Fiddleford. Bless his soul.


	9. Chapter 9

Of _course_ Fiddleford wasn’t back when Ford woke up, how _fucking naive_ of Ford to think that everything would be okay! He continued to emphasize this mistake to himself loudly as he combed through the house for his lover.

“Nice job, nice _going_ , this is just _fantastic_!” He griped as he ascended from the lab, having unfortunately found it to be empty. He took the steps two at a time. “He’s so smart, he says! He knows what he’s doing, he says! _I won’t be caught out in the daylight because I’ll be home before dawn, he says_!”

He hurried to the laundry room and began donning layer after layer; the snowfall had lightened considerably overnight, but temperatures were still frigid. Stanford’s voice took on a mocking tone, even as his heart pounded in his rib cage.

“Hurr dee durr, I’m Fiddleford McGucket I’ve been a vampire for less than forty-eight hours so I’m gonna go hunting with my bare hands in the middle of a _fucking_ _blizzard_!” Ford finished with a roar as he slammed out the door. He snatched up an empty pail and a poker for the fire pit. He banged the two together as he trudged out into the snow.

“ _Oh Fiddleford!_ ” He shouted, knowing full well how unlikely it was that he’d get a response, but desperation and anger (and five cups of coffee) fueling him. “Fiddleford, don’t you know it’s a _little_ past your bedtime!?” It was 10:42 AM. “Little vampires like you should _be in fucking bed!_ ”

In retrospect Stanford may have made himself one too many cups of coffee.

He continued ranting like this and banging the pail and poker as he circled around the house. Once. Twice. Three times. After that he dumped the items and ran inside to grab a flashlight--not because it was dark, per se, but because hopefully the extra light would help him catch anything definitive. Like a belt buckle, or wet leather shoes. Or blood.

But with snow still falling Ford couldn't go out of sight of the house; he'd risk getting himself disoriented and lost, which could spell many more dangers than aids. So again he circled, never venturing too far into the woods, screaming Fiddleford’s name. To no avail.

After three hours of fruitless searching, of investigating every little thing that could be out of the ordinary, Ford trudged back into the house, cold, exhausted, and nonetheless panicked. At this point Ford was wise enough to realize that more coffee would string his nerves out more than warm him up and soothe his sore throat; he settled for wrapping himself in blankets and curling up on the couch. But even that didn't last long--soon he was pacing up and down the living room, blanket around his shoulders like a cloak. He couldn't calm down.

He hoped, he _prayed_ that Fiddleford had found some dark, safe place to sleep in. But that hope in itself ushered in more questions. How far out in the forest could Fiddleford be that he couldn’t make it home before dawn? What if he had gotten lost? What if he had gotten _hurt what if he’s dying what if he’s--_

Ford tried to persuade himself not to think like that, not to imagine the worst scenario, but there was nothing else to do. If Fiddleford was asleep in the woods (which Ford told himself again that _that’s_ what happened, nothing _worse_ happened, _just calm down_ ) then Ford’s best chance of finding him wouldn’t be until nightfall, when Fiddleford would wake up (because he _will wake up_ , because he’s _not--_ ).

He spent most of the day like this. It felt like torture. Much like last night anything he tried to do to distract himself didn’t work. And this time there _was_ stuff on the television--it just wasn’t sufficient enough to quell his distress, but at the very least Ford found it mildly comforting to have the ambience. Of course it didn’t help that as he watched he remembered that it was Fiddleford who had insisted on purchasing the thing, “for when we’re bored” (to watch his favorite soap operas, really; Fiddleford could deny all he wanted, but Ford knew). Technically it was Fiddleford’s TV, not Ford’s (although was it _theirs_ now?), and it had several modifications that enhanced the sound and image of the squat box. So...even _that_ only returned his thoughts to Fiddleford.

At some point Ford might have fallen asleep--perhaps simply passing out due to stress alone--but it was fitful and when he became aware of his surroundings again he only felt groggy and sore. He had to force himself to eat. Time just couldn’t pass quickly enough.

“The first thing I’m going to do when I see him again--” because he _was_ going to see Fiddleford again, he _was_ , “--is sock him in the goddamn jaw.” Ford growled nervously, having resumed his pacing. He glanced at the clock repetitively, waiting and waiting for it to tick to evening. If the pattern held, Fiddleford would be awake around 6:15 PM. It was only quarter to five now, but...it was already growing dark out...

Ford once again donned numerous layers, grabbed a flashlight, and bolted outside. He flicked the porch light on to help him see even better.

“ _FIDDLEFORD_!” He yelled at the top of his lungs, swinging the flashlight around. He ran through the snow to the edge of the woods. “Fiddleford! Fiddleford, wake up! _Fiddleford!_ ”

Again he circled around the edge of the woods, keeping the house in sight. He tried to make as much noise as he could, blundering through the bushes and trees in the hopes it would get Fiddleford’s attention ( _because he will wake up he will wake up he will wake up_ ). A sudden thought occurred to him, and he smacked himself for not thinking of it earlier.

 _The bunker_.

It was far out in the woods enough that Ford could establish a perimeter that would be more likely to have Fiddleford within it. Not only that, it was still stocked enough to last him a few days if Ford thought it wasn’t safe enough to attempt going back home. Of course, there was risk in attempting to trek there in the first place, but Ford had marked the trees in a specific pattern--he’d be able to find them with his flashlight, regardless of the snow. And Fiddleford would likely have been able to find them even more easily; if Fiddleford was too far from home close to dawn, the bunker would have been a perfectly safe place to stay out of the light. It was even possible that that was where Fiddleford was right now!

Stanford turned on his heel and ran across the snow covered yard, to the opposite edge of the woods.

“I’m coming for ya buddy!” He felt himself grin wildly, feeling more hope than he had all day. How had he not thought of this possibility sooner!? He had barely run ten paces into the woods when a pack of snow fell squarely on his head and down his neck, stopping him in his tracks.

“Ah! Cold! W-What the hell…?” He wiped the snow off, glancing up into the branches of an incredibly dense pine tree. He couldn’t make out anything without the aid of his flashlight, but it was probably just a raccoon--

There was the distinct sound of fabric against bark, a low moan, snapping branches, then Fiddleford falling out of the tree.

Well. He didn’t fall all the way to earth. Somewhere his ankle must have caught on something, leaving him hanging upside down by one leg but mercifully _mercifully, thank God, thank the fucking Lord, alive_.

“Fiddleford!” Ford practically screeched, dropping his flashlight without a second thought. All notions of punching his boyfriend in the face flew out the window--mostly since Ford was too blinded by relief--and the first thing he did was pull him into a rough kiss, even as upside down as he was.

“Ir ve dershrokn mir helft tsu toyt ir putz!” Ford yelled when he broke away. Before he had the chance to repeat himself in english Fiddleford suddenly dropped out of the tree like a dead weight, landing with a _thump_ in the snow. He also landed in the light of Ford’s flashlight. Stanford froze, breath catching in his throat.

Fiddleford was _covered_ in blood, and his clothes were a tattered mess. It was only then that Ford realized Fiddleford was hardly responsive at all, save for pained moaning as he lay face-down and unmoving.

“Fiddleford!? Are you alright? You're covered in blood, is it yours? What happened!?” Ford fussed as he fell to his knees, trying to inspect Fiddleford for injuries.

“I tried to kill a moose…” The mechanic whined groggily. Ford’s eyes widened.

“ _And_?” He asked incredulously.

“I didn't kill the moose…” Another whine, sounding completely dejected and petulant. Ford frowned worriedly, but Fiddleford continued to speak as Ford rolled him over into his arms. His words were slurred and rambling.

“But I got--I got--two--two of ‘em Ford. Two rabbits. Tworabbits. And a s-s-squ-squiquirr’l. And fox! Big fox. Big--big--y’shuh be proud, Fords.”

“Mmm...” Ford hummed absently as he fumbled for the flashlight.

“Raccoon too. Couldn't--n-n-no--not--not the raccoon though, Ford. Too smart. So--s-sobeauty--all beauty--so beautififul, so smart. Fuckingg--couldn't do it. Don’ ask that a me, Ford.”

“Alright, I won't.” Ford said placatingly, raising the flashlight to Fiddleford’s face. The vampire immediately flinched away, whining unintelligibly. Ford gasped.

“Is that blood from your nose!? Is your nose broken? From fighting the moose?”

“Uh...nah.” Fiddleford blinked dazedly, adjusting to the bright light (now that it was focused on his face Ford could see the remnants of _two_ black eyes). “Ran into a tree. Uh..t--t--two trees. Two trees. I can run really fast now. ‘S disorientiating.” He finished matter-of-fact.

“So a broken nose, black eyes, _and_ a concussion--”

“Conc’sion from the moose.” Fiddleford corrected. “An’ the broken ribs. An’ arm. An’ the gut wound. Annnnn’ the head wound. Leg scratches from th’fox. Broken ankle ‘cuz a the tree.”

Ford’s eyes widened as he rushed to examine the rest of his lover's injuries. There was caked blood all over Fiddleford’s face, around his mouth (in retrospect, that kiss might not have been the best idea), his left cheek and most of his forehead. When Ford thought he’d located the source of it all he grabbed a handful of snow and used it to gently wipe some of the blood away. Fiddleford winced under his touch.

“S’cold…”

“You’re feeling the cold?”

“Y-yeahhhhh, a lil’. I think it's ‘cause m-my body’s still tryna focus on healin’.” Fiddleford mumbled, burrowing into Ford’s chest as if trying to escape the cold snow.

“Healing seems to be the case,” Ford replied, moving carefully. He examined the area with a flashlight. “There's no wound here. Just a scar.”

“Been healin’ all day, I guess.”

Ford moved on to Fiddleford’s chest, the shirt tattered enough it couldn’t even be called a shirt. There was plenty of blood, but none of it was fresh. He used snow again to clean away blood from what he thought was the source of it, and found a thick, barely healed scar stretching from the outer edge of the man’s left ribcage down and across to his right hip. Ford cursed under his breath.

Suddenly there was a sickening _crack_ from _within_ Fiddleford, and the mechanic cried out in pain. He seized up, and a hand suddenly fisted itself into Ford’s jacket shoulder.

“Fiddleford!? Oh my god, what just happened!?” Ford cried.

“Nnnngh-- _fuck_ \--jus--just another rib h--ha--healin’ back t’gether.” Fiddleford panted, eyes squeezed shut but tears already falling. “Pr-pretty sure it's--the--the last one. Been happenin’ all day, ‘cept I couldn' react t’it--ha-- _jesus_...”

“So you’ve been healing supernaturally fast, up in this tree, all day?”

“Mmmmyeah.” Fiddleford nodded, relaxing slightly as the pain seemed to ebb. “Was really fucked up after tha’ moose. Got lost. Figured I'd climb a tree t’hide f-from the sun--sun n’ all. Glad ya found me.”

“Fiddleford, you were _twenty feet from the fucking house_!” Ford’s voice unintentionally rose in volume. He rubbed his face with chagrin. Fiddleford had been close to home this _whole time_.

“Ohhhh, s’ _thas_ what I heard yellin’ in m-my--my dreams. Just thought it was some kinda bird.”

“Fiddleford, you goddamn moron,” Ford hissed, pulling the mechanic close so he could bury his face in his neck. His voice was cracking. “You had me worried sick.”

“M’sorry.” The apology was slurred, but sounded genuinely upset and apologetic. Ford sighed into Fiddleford’s neck.

“Don't be. I'm just glad you’re alive.”

Ford felt a few light, reassuring pats on his shoulder. He pulled away, eyes a little wetter than he wanted them to be. Fiddleford was smiling weakly.

“Let’s get you inside and cleaned up.” Ford said, placing the flashlight in Fiddleford’s lap. He shifted to get a better grip on Fiddleford’s body. With a grunt he heaved himself to his feet, Fiddleford in his arms, bridal style. Ford tried not to let his alarm show when he saw the glaringly incorrect angle the man’s ankle was in. And when he saw the way Fiddleford’s right arm dangled loosely, its shoulder sickeningly out-of-place.

“So,” Ford swallowed, steeling himself to stay calm, “what the _hell_ compelled you to try and take on a moose? Don't you know how fucking _gigantic_ those motherfuckers are?”

“MmmmIdunno.” Fiddleford mumbled. “Took d-d-down those others. Felt strong. Felt pow’rful. Thought I could take it...I gotta few hits on it at leasss--got some a its blood too, so it c’n go fuck itself.”

Ford tried not to laugh at the faint fire in the mechanic’s voice. He made his way back to the house as quick as possible without jostling Fiddleford too much. He thought the door would be a problem, but in a stroke of good luck, he had left it open when he had left the house. He kicked the door shut behind him once they were inside. In the full light, the blood on Fiddleford’s clothes stood out even more. Ford, again, tried not to show his alarm.

“S’not as bad as it looks.” Fiddleford said suddenly. When Ford looked down at him, bewildered, the man used his good arm to awkwardly pat Ford’s chest. “‘eartbeat.”

Ford sighed and shook his head exasperatedly. He carried his lover all the way up to the bathroom, and carefully set him down on the floor. Fiddleford’s eyes had slipped shut, his minimal shifting the only indication that he was still awake at all. Ford took off all his outer layers and threw them into the corner of the room. He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt.

“I really am sorry.” The soft voice made his head turn.

Fiddleford was watching him with half-lidded eyes. If Stanford knew any better he would have guessed the man was on the verge of tears, but from pain or emotion (or both), he couldn’t tell.

“I didn’ mean ta scare ya so bad. I know I pr’mised t’be back--back before dawn.” Fiddleford continued, looking away so he was staring straight at the ceiling. Ford hummed thoughtlessly as he settled back down next to his lover’s right side.

“In all honesty I probably should have made you promise not to go after anything twice your size. But knowing you, you wouldn’t have been able to keep it anyway.” He said as he gently positioned Fiddleford’s arm at a ninety degree angle from his torso. He saw a hint of a smile on the mechanic’s face out of the corner of his eye.

“But make no mistake, you and I are going to have a proper talk about…“hunting tactics” once you’re feeling a little better.” He added.

“Alright.” Fiddleford nodded, resigned.

“I’m going to fix your shoulder now. Your body might heal on its own, but it wouldn’t hurt to speed things along.” Ford warned.

“For some reason the shoulder won’ heal.” Fiddleford nodded again, even as Ford began to slowly pull the injured limb. “Got that f-from the moose--too.”

“Odd.” Was Ford’s only response. He braced his other hand on Fiddleford’s side to give himself some leverage as he pulled. After about a minute of steady pulling, there was a dull _clunk_ and Fiddleford’s shoulder rearticulated. Fiddleford hissed through his teeth and jolted, eyes squeezed shut with the pain. But after hardly a second he relaxed, face filled with relief.

“Try not to move that arm too much.” Ford said.

“Mmm. D’ya think you could s-set m’ankle too? It’ll help it heal faster.” Fiddleford propped himself up a little on his good arm. Ford frowned, eyeing the injury.

“I’m not sure I should, I could risk making it--”

“Please? It’ll help--with the pain.” Fiddleford pleaded weakly. “I d-did it to my arm--it’ll heal faster once it’s set. An’ it’s not as if you can bring me t-to a hospital.”

“True.” Ford huffed, pulling Fiddleford’s leg into his lap. He pressed gingerly around the injury, feeling for the displacement of the bone through the swelling. Fiddleford didn’t make any sound, but Ford could hear his breathing become labored. Chewing his lip worriedly, Ford began to twist the ankle back into position. There was small _snap_ at one point, which almost discouraged Ford from continuing completely, but Fiddleford’s strained pleas spurred him on. In the end, he could only hope that he set it correctly (he really should start going after some sort of M.D., at this rate it’d be prudent). But when he began to apologize Fiddleford was quick to reassure him.

“Ya did fine, babe. Th--thank ya kindly.” The man huffed, sinking back down to the ground. “I should be able t’move soon.”

“Do you really heal that quickly?” Ford asked, gingerly removing the man’s shoes and socks.

“Think so. With the ribs I c-couldn’t set ‘em--and they took the whole damn day, you saw that. It only took--took the arm two or three hours once I set it. An’ that had bone stickin’ out my skin.” Fiddleford briefly raised the arm in question. The sleeves had been torn off at the elbow, and Ford could see the blood all over, but aside from some skin discoloration there was no longer any visible wound. “Should be shorter for the ankle--not as bad a break.”

“Well, I suppose that’s good at least.” Ford said. “Do you think your body can process any painkillers? I’ve got ibuprofen--”

“I don’t wanna risk it. My body’s been through enough today, don’t wanna give it an upset stomach too. S’alright, everything mostly just feels achey, s’not too bad.” Fiddleford shook his head, shifting a little as if to demonstrate his soreness.

“Perhaps a warm shower will help with that.” Ford said, reaching for the man’s shirt buttons. Fiddleford again propped himself up, this time until he was sitting up fully; it brought their faces closer together as Stanford worked down the shirt.

“Ya know, when I imagined you undressin’ me, this was not the context I imagined it bein’ in.” Fiddleford commented plainly. Ford immediately fumbled and blushed, head jerking up to stare at Fiddleford. The mechanic was smiling innocently. Ford huffed and continued helping his boyfriend undress. They took extra care when it came to Fiddleford’s right shoulder--it was still a little tender, although not as much as Ford thought it should be. _He really does have rapid healing_ , he thought.

The pants were...awkward, at least for Ford. Fiddleford at the moment lacked the dexterity the undo them, leaving the task to Ford. But the southern man appeared to refrain from making any kind of joke or innuendo as Ford tugged his pants and boxers off, perhaps too in pain to do so. Indeed, as more skin was revealed Ford noticed more and more bruises smattering Fiddleford’s body. None of them looked fresh--almost all of them had yellowed, some were almost completely faded. Ford did his best not to touch them.

Once Fiddleford was completely undressed, Ford moved to start the shower. He debated getting the tub and filling that, but a sudden brush against his legs brought his attention downward. Fiddleford was weakly crawling on his hands and knees (didn't Ford _just_ tell him not to move that arm too much?) into the running shower. Ford’s breath caught in his throat: there was a large bruise on the mechanic’s back, a huge splotch right where his left kidney was, and it was so bad it had only just begun to yellow, making the thing an ugly purple-brown. It was suspiciously hoof-shaped.

“Don’t judge me, I’m too tired to bother with dignity.” Fiddleford said as he passed. Once inside, he flipped so he was sitting under the shower’s spray.

“Do you not want the tub?” Ford asked.

“Don’t wanna sit in water that'll just get dirty, nah.” Fiddleford shook his head. “I’ll be fine if I just...sit here an’ clean myself. I’ll be fine.”

“Alright then.” Ford nodded, closing the shower curtain. He went over to the pile of tattered and bloodied clothing and began to pick it up; he’d come back for his own clothes in a moment. He made to leave, but then:

“Where do ya think _you’re_ goin’?” The light drawl came from the shower. Ford raised an eyebrow, slightly confused.

“Giving you some privacy...?”

“Uh-huh.” Was the negative. “You’re gettin’ in here too.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Stanford, you haven’t showered since before this whole mess started.” Fiddleford said dryly. “ _Believe_ _me_ , ya smell like shit.”

Stanford made a face, unsure whether to feel offended or not.

“It’ll save on water if you get in.” Fiddleford added. “Also...I need you to get the soap.”

Ford couldn’t help but chuckle as he set the clothes down. His lover _did_ have a point. Two technically. There would be no harm in it if he did, so why not? That didn’t stop him from feeling a little nervous as he stripped down.

“I’d whistle but one: I can’t see ya, and two: I haven’t figured out how to whistle with these fangs yet.”

Ford laughed outright then, and although he still blushed he felt much more comfortable. It was Fiddleford, after all. He set his glasses on the sink counter and stepped into the shower, grabbing the soap and sponge. He looked down: Fiddleford was grinning up at him tiredly, and gave him a small wave.

“Howdy.”

Ford grinned himself and sat down in the shower. The warm water did feel incredibly nice even with the cold shower floor. However Ford noticed that Fiddleford wasn’t under the main stream of it, instead leaning to the side against the wall. That wouldn’t do.

“Here, move.” He beckoned Fiddleford to move forward.

“Nah, I’m just...I’m fine, it’s just tirin’ to sit up for--”

“I know, just trust me.” Ford encouraged, scooting closer. Once Fiddleford was leaning forward, Ford gently moved the man off the wall completely, and settled between the two. He pulled Fiddleford back against him (careful of the bruise on his back), so in the end Ford was leaning against the wall, and Fiddleford was leaning against him between his legs, his back to Ford’s chest.

“I’m probably comfier than the wall.” Was the only explanation Ford gave. “And warmer.”

Fiddleford hummed and adjusted, too tired to be embarrassed or nervous at the intimacy. That in itself boosted Ford’s own confidence. He smiled and took the sponge Fiddleford had sudsed up.

“Hey--”

“Shh, relax. Let me.” Ford murmured. He leaned to the side and tilted Fiddleford’s chin so he could see the man’s face. Gently he scrubbed the blood off of Fiddleford’s forehead, careful not to get any soap in his eyes. Even in the short time that had passed since Ford first saw the scar, he could have sworn it was even fainter than before. He continued to clean down the man’s cheek, Fiddleford doing his best to stay still. Ford frowned a little when he reached Fiddleford’s jaw.

“There’s bruising here.” It was faint, almost fully healed, but there.

“Moose broke my jaw.” Fiddleford explained. “That healed the fastest, actually. Almost forgot about that one.”

“For the love of God, please never go after a moose again.” Ford huffed exasperatedly as he moved on to Fiddleford’s neck and shoulders. Fiddleford giggled, completely unfazed.

“I’ll try not to.” He said. Suddenly the sponge was snatched from Ford’s hand. Fiddleford smirked, but Ford noticed that it didn't exactly reach his eyes.

“‘S your turn.”

As gently as Ford cleaned him, Fiddleford began to wash Ford’s face. There was special attention paid to his mouth and chin (probably to clean off blood from kissing Fiddleford). Ford found himself staring into Fiddleford’s eyes. The light of the bathroom even through the shower curtain was bright enough to make his pupils contract--they reminded Ford of a cat’s eyes. And of course, they made the blue of his irises stand out strikingly. Stanford was never one for sappy romance, but damn if those eyes weren't the most beautiful shade of blue; like a perfectly clear summer sky.

Fiddleford didn't seem to notice Stanford staring, he appeared to be quite focused on his task. Although, after a moment of scrutiny, Ford realized how _un_ focused his eyes really were. And the fact that the man had been tenderly (read: weakly) rubbing the same spot on his jaw for over a minute. Rapid healing or no, Fiddleford was still injured, and exhausted.

“Fidds, take it easy.” Ford stopped the other man’s ministrations. He took the sponge away.

“But--”

“I can clean myself. You're tired. Let me take care of you.” Ford hushed him, adjusting the man so Fiddleford was once again facing away from him, his back to Ford’s chest. Fiddleford whined in protest, but eventually gave in, resting his head back on Ford’s shoulder.  

“Here.” Ford sat forward a little, and lifted their left arms to be aligned together. Internally thankful for being broad enough to reach, Ford began to clean both of their arms with the sponge as one. But when he turned his arm, Fiddleford didn’t, instead lacing their fingers together. Ford chuckled, but it turned into a laugh as Fiddleford laughed with him. Grinning, Ford began to press kisses into the side of his neck, which only prompted more laughter. Holding hands was traded for Ford wrapping his arms around Fiddleford’s chest, the two relaxing back against the wall. Ford didn’t stop peppering kisses all across Fiddleford’s neck and shoulders, but he resumed his cleaning: lightly he dragged the sponge across Fiddleford’s chest. It wasn’t long before laughter turned to happy sighs.

“An’ ya say I’m the one who’s too good to ya.” The mechanic murmured. Ford didn’t respond verbally, instead humming into the spot just behind his lover’s ear. Where the sponge travelled, his other hand followed, caressing and stroking smooth skin, swirling patterns into the soap. He was gentle as he brushed up and down Fiddleford’s sides, not wanting to agitate bruised skin or accidentally press too hard against one of his newly-healed ribs. He pushed the man forward a little so he could scrub down his back, careful to avoid the bruise on his lower back. The whole time Ford’s lips hardly left Fiddleford’s skin, kissing or simply moving, he was addicted to the sensation. It wasn’t until Ford’s hands had moved down to Fiddleford’s thighs that he realized the sighs from before had become quiet moans.

Fiddleford was completely limp and relaxed against him, head tilted back on Ford’s shoulder; the only time he moved was when his hips twitched slightly, a weak attempt at relieving the arousal between his legs. That is, until he noticed Ford had stopped moving. He looked down and groaned.

“Shit, I’m sorry--”

“Shh, it’s fine.” Ford smiled, returning to his ministrations. Fiddleford immediately melted, any protest on his lips fading to soft moans. The moans became more plaintive as Ford’s hands (sponge set aside) stroked and rubbed his thighs and around his groin, dancing around but not _actually_ touching him.

“Do you want me to stop?” Ford asked, pausing for a moment. “I’ll stop if you tell me to.”

“N-no, ya--ya can keep goin’.” Fiddleford nodded his consent. Ford immediately resumed, lightly massaging any skin under his fingertips. The mechanic became more responsive, his moans louder and more pleading.

“P-please, babe.” He gasped, hips rolling into a touch that was barely there. “Just, just wanna feel good, Ford…”

“The endorphins will help, my dear.” Ford purred. “Like I said before: just relax. Let me take care of you.”

Softly he took Fiddleford’s dick in hand, a small “ _oh_ ” leaving the other’s lips. He sank back against Ford, he was putty in his hands, completely at ease. Ford started off slow and even, thumbing the head before stroking back down the shaft. It was heavy in his palm. Fiddleford voiced his pleasure, giving little “yes”s and “oh”s and moaning happily. Ford grinned before once more pressing kisses into Fiddleford’s neck, except this time he was a little more creative, sucking at the man’s earlobe and dragging his tongue over his pulse.

“Ir zent azoy gut, azoy heldish.” He murmured, voice low. “Bei mir bist du shayn.”

Fiddleford shuddered under his touch, groaning. Ford continued to growl, in English and Yiddish; nothing but praise fell from his lips. He pumped faster, twisting his wrist in a way that practically had Fiddleford keening. But as soon as the mechanic seemed close to the edge, Ford slowed down again. His touches would become soft, he’d pay special attention to the man’s balls or the head of his dick; he wanted to draw this out. He continued to tease and edge, murmuring compliments even as Fiddleford begged. After the third round of speeding up and slowing down Fiddleford bucked his hips violently, desperate for release. Ford quickly (but carefully) pinned the man down.

“Sh, sh, what happened to relaxing?” He drawled.

“ _You_ , _oh_ \--ah--p-please, Ford, please.” Fiddleford whined; he stopped struggling, but continued pleading breathlessly. “Ford--I'm-- _ah_ \--so close, so close please, I need, I need--”

“Need what?” Ford began to rub soothing circles into the man’s hip and thigh, began to kiss his neck gently--all while stroking Fiddleford’s dick. He wasn't going to disobey, not when Fiddleford was begging so much, but he just wanted to hear a little more.

“ _Nng_ \--Need to cum--uh-- _uh_ \--p- _please_ let me cum--Ford please!”

“Of course, my dear.” Ford hummed, a deep rumble in his chest that made the other man shudder. It didn't take much to bring Fiddleford to orgasm; after a few hard strokes the man gave a small cry, hips jerking as he came all over his stomach and Ford’s hand. Ford pumped him through it, making sure his lover was completely spent before finally letting go.

“Opruen, ir hat azoy gezunt, meyn libe.” Ford cooed, reaching for the soap and sponge. Fiddleford was hardly more than mush, exhausted nearly to the point of sleep.

“Don't even...know...what yer sayin’, doll.” Fiddleford managed, eyes half-lidded but smiling contentedly. Ford shifted the mechanic until he was lying across his lap.

“Don't worry, Fidds.” He pressed a quick kiss to Fiddleford’s temple. “Just let me clean you up.”

“If this is the treatment I'll get, I should do this more often.” Fiddleford commented quietly, leaning against Ford’s chest and watching as Ford scrubbed down his abdomen and legs.

“Please don't.” Ford winced. “Consider it an outlier. On this occasion relief won out over anger.”

“Ooh, I wonder what anger’s like.” Fiddleford teased, giggling.

Ford growled playfully.

“Stop it.”

“Make me.” Another giggle.

Ford leaned in without a second thought and captured Fiddleford’s lips with his own. Fiddleford did his best to reciprocate, but the kiss was sloppy nonetheless, he was so tired. Stanford didn't mind.

Suddenly ice hit his back and both men pulled apart, shaking. They had run out of hot water.

“What convenient timin’.” Fiddleford said dryly.

“L-let's get you out of here.” Ford chattered, hefting Fiddleford in his arms and climbing to his feet. He carefully stepped out of the shower and set Fiddleford down on the closed toilet; Ford grabbed a towel off the hook and quickly wrapped it around the shivering man’s shoulders. For all he had healed he was still feeling the cold, which Ford didn't think was the best sign. But Fiddleford was still smiling tiredly, and all the pain from earlier seemed to be gone for now. He clutched the towel around himself and curled up on the seat.

“What about you?” He asked.

“I just need to give myself a quick scrub down--won't be more than a minute.” Ford told him. He braced himself and stepped back into the shower.

“But it's so cold!” Fiddleford gasped.

“I'm fine.” It was hard to keep the chattering out of his voice, but really, Ford was no stranger to cold showers. There had been plenty of times where he hadn't had enough money to pay the heating bill.

 _And really_ , Ford thought as he quickly washed himself under the cold water, glancing down between his legs, _it's probably better off this way_.

There were more important things to take care of than _that_.

Ford hopped out of the shower quickly once he was finished, rushing over to the spare towel and throwing it over his shoulders. He glanced at Fiddleford as he started to dry himself off. He could have sworn the man was asleep--he hadn't even moved since Ford had gotten back in the shower--until his blue eyes opened halfway to gaze up at him.

“M’sorry.” Fiddleford mumbled (Ford could barely understand him, he was speaking into his towel covered knees). “Fer not takin’ care of ya.”

“Wha--? Oh, you mean--Fidds, it's fine.” Ford shook his head, smiling warmly. “I'd rather you--uh-- _reciprocate_ \--when you’re feeling one hundred percent.”

“I'm a hundred percent.” Fiddleford protested, lifting his head up.

“You’re eighty percent, at best.” Ford deadpanned. “Really, it's okay.”

Fiddleford’s head dropped back down and he looked away dejectedly. Ford stifled a chuckle and cinched the towel around his waist. He walked over and knelt in front of the mechanic, still smiling.

“I love you, Fidds. That's enough.” He said, leaning up and kissing Fiddleford chastely. Fiddleford huffed, still a little disappointed in himself, apparently. Ford shook his head exasperatedly and straightened.

“I wanna walk.” Fiddleford said. This time Ford shook his head seriously.

“Fidds, I set your ankle less than thirty minutes ago. Give it time.” Instead, Ford scooped Fiddleford up in his arms once more (at this rate he was going to be sore in the morning; he could already feel exhaustion in his bones, the stress of the day was finally taking its toll). Fiddleford didn't protest, at least, cuddling up to Ford as soon as he could.

“I love you too.” He heard, murmured into his neck. He grinned and held Fiddleford just a little bit tighter, and he had no doubts the mechanic could hear his heart skip a beat.

Ford went to his room, and set Fiddleford gently on the bed. He grabbed a pair of pyjamas and tossed them to Fiddleford.

“I know they might not fit.” He said when his lover examined them, slightly dubious. “But the layers will help, especially if you’re still feeling cold.”

“True.” Fiddleford conceded, letting the towel fall and pulling the shirt over his head. Stanford himself changed into his other set of pyjamas, yawning as he did, letting his towel pool on the floor. He heard Fiddleford drop his over the side of the bed.

Fiddleford was already under the covers, and held them up for Ford when he climbed in. He immediately snuggled up to the other man, snaking his arms around his chest and holding him close. He couldn't help but smile when he felt arms wrapped around him in turn. He met Fiddleford’s eye.

“Do you feel better?” He asked. Fiddleford returned the smile, but he already seemed to be half asleep.

“Yeah--yeah I do.”

“Good.” Ford pressed in for another kiss; it was languid and sloppy, despite both their efforts. They were just too tired. Ford felt sleep pull at him, and was all too willing to give in.

“Love ya, Fidds.” He mumbled, burrowing into Fiddleford’s neck.

“Love ya, Ford.” Came the response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo! Another doozy!   
> Poor Fiddleford...I need to stop beating him up. But come on. It's a moose.
> 
> Translations:
> 
> 1) "You've scared me half to death you idiot!"  
> 2) "You are so good, so brave. To me you're beautiful."  
> 3) "Relax, you did so well, my love."
> 
> ~~  
> Okay, so, I have a little announcement: I'm going to be going on a little GF hiatus soon, so this'll likely be the last BL update you'll get for a while. Don't worry, it's not being abandoned! I'm just taking a break to work on other fics (*cough cough* BBRH *cough cough*) as well as work on chapter/story outlines. I figured here would be a nice stopping point for that break.
> 
> Thank you for sticking with this through my sporadic updating! See you on the other side!

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by lilymantis's AMAZING pics: http://lilymantis.tumblr.com/post/130576403648/vampire-fiddleford-mcgucket-nsfw-handjob  
> Alas, I am literally incapable of writing porn without plot. So plot there will be before anything really sexy goes down. (and I can't promise consistent updates, I have like 5 different in progress fics and i work on them all randomly >>")  
> Anyways, hope you enjoy!
> 
> PS: Yes, Stanford knows Yiddish. All Yiddish in this fic comes from google translate, so if there are any errors, don't hesitate to let me know!


End file.
